


yes, my lord.

by liibrorum



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, South Park: The Stick of Truth, Stick of Truth AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liibrorum/pseuds/liibrorum
Summary: the marshwalker was coming, and with him, the tides of war. stick of truth au, canon divergent. stan/kyle, dark fantasy themes. explicit rating for sexual content, political assassination attempts, coups, etc.





	1. olympus is falling.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this in my own words for a while now, but thank you for reading. This fanfiction is heavily based on an /amazing/ Stick of Truth roleplay I had a while back, with a /wonderful/ Kyle, so if you're that Kyle, I hope that I've been able to take what you've written and adapt it and work with it to continue the story that we've begun. If you're that Kyle and want credit, please let me know and I'll be sure to do what I can for you.
> 
> Check out more sweet content on my South Park blog: marshwalkerstan.tumblr.com

God is awake, and he is listening.

They hail him as a god and he  _ hates  _ it, despises this role with every fiber of his being. What he wants is to be a revolutionary, a star so bright that the kings before him, the kings of old, are put to shame and he is the only name prominent enough in the history of the Drow Elves. Their king understands that for a society to thrive, to flourish, that there must be good and evil. Right and wrong. Power and control, but also submission and subordinance. That, of course, is his job, to keep the balance, and so he listens.

Atop his throne of oaken bark and leaves, there is a breeze— winter is here, though not for much longer, and with winter have come the tides of war. He sits upon his throne, and they come through snow and ice to see him, to drop to their knees at their feet and listen to the desire of their god. His own belief system is strange and something undefined— he does not follow the pantheon of the Drow, nor the pantheon of Man, and for that, their king may believe that there is no god. Perhaps there is. Perhaps there isn’t. 

Of course, until the person at his feet is not one of his own.

Princess Kenny of the Kingdom of Kupa Keep is no simple woman, nor is she a common one. She, like other nobles of the Keep, enjoys her fair share of political drama, and as the tides of war increase, so does the desire to slit her throat alongside the Grand Wizard’s. So, he acts as if he’s surprised when she gifts him a letter, demands he make a compromise. He despises them, hates the lot of them, considers them less than the rocks that his good hiking boots pick up, wishes they’d fall over with the casualties. 

Yet, he praises her for her kindness, asks to  _ make sure  _ that this is what she wants. She replies and claims that, of course it is. Her most loyal to her will be his most loyal as well, and it will be the first steps of peace. The next steps entail ceasefire and peacetalk.

He’d like to see her try. He fantasizes about clawing down the Grand Wizard’s face, ripping his skin into ribbons for the Yuletide. He wants to eat him up, flay him alive, chain him to a block in his town square, naked, and have him beg each passing Drow citizen for the mercy of death. Personally, he does not consider himself a violent man, but with the Grand Wizard? All bets are off. He dreams of the day that his newest portrait is painted, and in it, the Wizard’s head.

The Marshwalker is coming, and with him, the end of the war.

 

His morning was met with water, then with a bucket.

Sitting forward, the Marshwalker was alerted into consciousness by the current pain delivered to his already-broken nose. The dim lights of what he can assume to be the Drow Elves’ dungeon come as a welcome surprise to Stan’s throbbing eyes, fresh with a migraine, and he lets his hands run over sore, exposed, bruised muscles. From behind the bars, a figure stands, though the light from behind him shrouds his face partially from the warrior’s gaze. The figure speaks with a stutter, but is charismatic all the same: “Good m-morning, S-Stan Marshwalker.”

The man attempts to stand, only to be dropped to his knees upon finding his hands bound to the concrete floors with iron chains. As he struggles to find reason for his binding and to gain his bearings again, the doors to his cell opens, and the figure before him enters, his face stepping into the light. The infamous Bard, who spun songs of debauchery and cruelty, stands before him; his arms rest against enchanted maple, pulling keys from his belt and freeing Marshwalker— right, then left.

“We r-really are s-sorry for the way you were brought to us,” he says, the latter half of his sentence being deafened by the iron chains’ audible crash.

“I have half a mind to murder you where you stand, Bard,” Stan frowns, rubbing the raw flesh of his wrists; his voice is weakened, sour. Like a dog who had been kicked down and starved for days. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t, for the way your guards beat me in the forests.”

“I-Ignorance, Marshwalker,” replies the Bard, straightening his back and flexing his arms against his wooden legs. “We were under the— under the— under the— we thought you were coming to attack us.” He dips his head, gaze low to the ground as Stan rises to his full stature, just barely over six feet. “You’re to be pr-presented to His Majesty, the K-King, this morning, and he wants you f-fed and watered. C-Come with me.”

The Bard exits Stan's cell, and the warrior follows suit, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a shining placard. He stops, frowning as he runs a hand over his stubbled chin, his bruised cheek, and his scarred forehead. He thinks about everything that went wrong during his encounter with the Drow Elves; surely, an explanation would have been all that was needed to prevent the fight, but they drew their swords first. He says nothing when the Bard stops to see if he was following, and he continues following behind his disabled host.

He is allowed a meal—elven food, primarily vegetables and fruits, but there is a little meat, and Stan consumes it like he's been starved for days. He is given a glass of wine, but he denies it, and is given water instead. The nourishment slides down his throat and his strength is soon to return; cold nights in the forest have left him weakened and tired. This is the perfect pick-me-up. He feels reinvigorated, though still weakened and grimy; Stan doesn’t ask for a bath, nor a change of clothes. For all intents and purposes, he was supposed to arrive as a distinguished guest; now, he is a prisoner of war, kept under the close eye of the King.  
The Bard enters the kitchens with Marshwalker's gear, including his blade. He is told to dress, and the Bard gives him the decency of leaving the room. (He wonders if Princess Kenny would have him beheaded for abandoning the drow elves and returning home, but the thought of the lady makes him sick to his stomach.)

The cloth of his under-armor pulls tight against his body as he shrugs on leather armor. They stripped him of it to keep him weak, subordinate; it’s a common tactic of prisoner-keeping, and as a once-master tactician the Keep, Stan knows it well. He’s impressed by their abilities to subjugate and to put him down, as if he was nothing more than a beast in chains. Perhaps to some degree he is, bearing his teeth for whomever he’s supposed to call master— except his teeth is his sword, and his master is the banner he pledges loyalty to.

Still, he is not given his blade.

When dressed, he exits, meeting the Bard with a kinder gaze now. They nod, and walk together down the Grand Hall, and Stan's battle instincts put him on the offensive. He desires nothing more than piercing the Elven king's chest--and then the Grand Wizard's. He rolls his shoulders back, and is blinded by the light as they enter the double doors of the throne room.

He feels important. Bile rises in his mouth.

“Presenting Ranger Stan Marshwalker, Friend of Wolves and Badgers, Master Tactician, Crown Beastmaster of Koopa Keep, Royal Guard to Princess Kenny of Koopa Keep.” Titles of titles, some meaningless and other shells of his past. As he walks down the grass-floored throne room to approach the king himself, a messiah among apostles, he thinks of the hollowness of his own name. He’s putting on airs, like a dog on display at a show, and he bares his teeth as he stands before the Drow King. Heretic. Murderer.

They’ve sent him as a political peace offering; it was Princess Kenny’s idea, and the Grand Wizard jumped on the bandwagon near-immediately. He is to become loyal to High King Kyle Broflovski of the Drow Elves, serve as his royal guard until the end of the war; Stan believes it to be a suicide mission and wonders what he’s done to anger the Princess. But alas, he knows his true place; he is nothing more than a sword or shield, a meat puppet to be handed from one owner to the next. Like a war hound with a leash.

The Bard leans forward on his canes, as best a kneel as he can provide. Stan raises his arm and bends it at the elbow, fist placed over his heart. He does not--and will not--bow to this king, but he does lower his head out of respect: a traditional warrior's greeting.

Atop his throne, Kyle revels in his own hypocrisy. Stan finds his throne room to be bare in comparison to the one that the Grand Wizard and Princess have put on; Kyle claims their luxury to be to inflate their own egos, to compare dick sizes as if they have nothing else to spoil. Kyle has treaties, partnerships— loyalty. His peasants  _ love  _ him. The peasants of the Keep  _ fear  _ their royalty. The throne room itself is common, open-aired; Kyle sits upon oak and maple, not silver and gold— the walls are open, and the crisp winter breeze chills his royal court to the bone, even behind furs and cloaks. The ground presently is covered in dry, dead grass, though will return to its lush, green color at the turn of springtime.

To Kyle, Stan looks rough; tanned skin from years of being a farmer and then years of being a soldier are bruised and stained shades of blue and violet. The bridge of his nose is obviously broken and has been reset—likely, he thinks, by the Bard’s hand—which angers the High King. The message he had made was clear: the Marshwalker will come, with blade and in armor, and you are to escort him to the palace, no exceptions. If he takes the life of one of ours, take his. Surely, Kyle thinks as he looks over this sad, hollowed shell of a man that stands before him, his guard would not have let him live. 

“Stan Marshwalker.” He sits forward, elbows on his knees, acting like he hasn’t memorized every syllable of Stan’s name and titles, like he hasn’t studied each public fact about the man before him in an attempt to continue upholding his power and control in his dominion. “Welcome to the Kingdom of the Drow Elves. You look… horrible.”

Stan says nothing, not while politicians are around. Not while inner sanctum, royal advisors are around. He knows the game of cards they’re about to play, and from the look in Kyle’s eyes, he knows it too. The High King sits back in his throne, crossing one leg over the other and spreading gloved fingers around the arms of the chair. “Bard,” he calls, continuing to stare Stan down; the Marshwalker, of course, doesn’t waver from their intensity.

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty?” He asks, rising from his pseudo-kneel.

“Arrange a message for the captain of the guard who broke the Marshwalker’s nose,” he commands, but his voice does not echo throughout the chamber. It lies still on the winter air, and the Bard turns, scuttering away with the creaks of wood underneath his weight. “And you may leave us.” He adds with a wave of his hand, gesturing to whatever high court exists within the throne room. They look at him incredulously, and he responds with an incredulous look of his own, about to scold them for their disobedience before they follow the Bard’s suit.

Stan’s arms cross over his chest, and there is a long pause between the King and the Ranger before Stan chooses to break it, letting his arms fall to his sides. His breath rolls out his mouth in a small cloud, warm against the winter air, and he closes his eyes. “Self-defense,” he admits to Kyle, a lie bleeding through his chapped lips. He removes his helm, setting it at his feet so that every inch of the Ranger’s expression would be bared to the King. It sets between his feet like a mantlepiece, and his feet separate into a parade rest, arms straight behind his back. “Your men attacked me in self defense.”

His armor is human-make, from the finest smith in the Keep, and he appears... out of place in the elven throne room. The humans are proud and kind, chivalrous and egotistical-- and Stan himself falls victim to those claims often. And yet? He was proud to be of the Keep, to be the Princess's highest guard and one of the sworn protectors of the Stick of Truth. Truthfully, Stan wishes he would have collapsed in those woods; he wonders if death would have been a better alternative to the feeling of betrayal forming in the pit of his stomach.

His expression is read like the finest texts in the library. Stan might think he's lying through his teeth, but it's more appropriate to say he's lying through his  _ everything _ . Kyle's head shifts—left, then right, then left again—and with the knowledge that they're blissfully alone, finds himself climbing to his feet, off the throne and on proper eye level. He's tall -- astonishingly so for an elf, but he credits that to his true lineage, and it's more reason for him to be proclaimed a God by self-proclaimed inferiors. The Marshwalker still towers over him by a good few inches, though less so than Stan originally imagined. The Drow Elves he had seen in battle were short— five foot six at max— but Kyle must have been easily five foot nine, ten. The peasantry marvels at his bright hair and eyes; parallel, they cower in fear at the dark hair, bright eyes the Marshwalker possesses. They hail his high cheekbones, the curve of his nose. They fear Stan’s sharp cheekbones, the blister of his lip. Must be royalty, must be supernatural, must be the blessed messiah. God help him. Must be a beast, must be a heathen. Burn the heretic.

"You don't look happy." He tries to keep an authoritative tone, but he can't help the twitch of his nose, how his voice cracks in amusement. "I can't say I blame you. This isn't convenient for either of us, truth be told, but I'm not going to keep you here forever. Just until I get what I want -- and that isn't /you/, Marshwalker."

Suddenly, he grins. "You can call me Kyle, if you'd like."

The redhead climbs off the throne, and Stan finds himself marvelling at just how... /tall/ the king is. Nearly as tall as Stan-- as the average human-- with features akin to the Marshwalker's kind. He speaks no ill nor praise of it to himself, but instead notes the features, how he stands out from the other elves-- how plain they are in comparison to him. 

He speaks common sense, and Stan's lips can't help but twitch upward into a smirk, nose rumbling softly as he snorts. He does not speak during the pause-- there's no need for him to; he has nothing to say. Instead, his features, strong and square and bruised, return to that bored, unimpressed, tired look. The king doesn't /want/ him? What a surprise-- Marshwalker never would have seen /that/ coming. Gods help him.

"...I expected that," Stan admits. "But you're giving me more freedom than you think. If the roles were reversed-- if you had sent your best warrior to the Keep-- they likely would have been returned to you in a coffin, by the wizard's hand." He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. "I will do as asked, and hope to give everyone here the amount of respect that I would have given my family -- blood or otherwise -- back home. I apologize for the inconvenience my presence makes, your Highness." 

In actuality, the pit that existed in the warrior's stomach grew as the elven king offered him respect and kindness. He thinks harder on the reversal of roles, and how the wizard would have had any member of the drow elves locked away-- possibly executed, simply for being an elf. Bigotry ran rampant through the wizard's veins, and the Keep... accepted that. He, as a whole, with his magic, protected the Keep and the Stick of Truth, and the Keep turned their eye to his mannerisms. A fair trade, he remembers Princess Kenny saying.

And then, the King speaks again-- Kyle. Was that truly the great Elf King's first name? He doesn't laugh or snort or scowl at the name, but instead, just kind of... stands there for a minute, trapped in awe. Someone whose citizens praised him like a god, worshiped and kissed the ground he walked on like the messiah sent to earth to expunge the world of sin... had a plain first name? Stan does not grin, but his lips do turn up into a smile. "Then you may call me Stan, if you'd like-- though I don't think you need my permission for that."

He shakes his head a bit, casting his thoughts (mostly his prickling desire to badmouth the Wizard) aside and instead rises from the throne, descending wooden steps and brushing past, turning to lead Stan out of the throne room. “I’m sure this is all very unfamiliar to you.” He throws the words over his shoulder as he sets pace. “I wish you’d have visited in the springtime, really. It’s easier on the extremities. And, yes, we /do/ sleep inside.” Kyle’s chambers are about as comfortable as you’d expect of a king, even if he’d be just as content to lay on a commoner’s bed. Servants boil water for his baths and send only the finest for his consumption. Stan will live in luxury, if only temporarily. 

“There’s time for a tour, if you’re so inclined.” He watches Stan with intensely curious eyes. “But, if you’re tired — as I’m sure you are — I wouldn't mind introducing you to your chambers.”

"I have no preference,” The Marshwalker replies, “though I believe a tour is necessary. If I am to be your highest guard, then I should know my way around the place." Stan stays with his arms crossed, on the defense. His body is a shield for whomever it needs to be—at this very moment, himself; for later in the future, Kyle or the Princess Kenny or the Grand Wizard Cartman—and his hands are the blade. Stan Marshwalker is a walking weapon, and has the mentality of such. The Wizard told him that he should be /grateful/ that he is the highest guard in all of Koopa Keep; it brought glory to his name and pride to his family.

He remembers his mother's smile like it was yesterday.

"After all, it would be quite embarrassing if I were to go on a task for you or your court and got lost, wouldn't it?" He lightens his own mood with humor. He not once thought the elves slept outside like heathens or wild men, but perhaps Kyle is attempting to undo the damage that the wizard has done to Stan's mind.

The High King's eyes wander over Stan with a curiosity that he is unfamiliar with. He feels.. analyzed, intruded upon—afraid. Marshwalker's jaw clenches, and a deep, bellowing sigh exhales through his nose like a dragon. After a moment, he finally moves, bending over again to pick up his helm and place it back onto his head, black hair matting underneath it and broken nose throbbing against the cold metal in the front.  
"Lead the way," Stan offers, feet breaking the parade rest and one hand being placed on his hip, the other hanging at his side. "And I will follow."

As the Marshwalker’s face hides under his helm again, running away from the truth, from his vulnerabilities, Kyle frowns— he doesn’t like the barrier. He reads faces, analyzes words, enjoys seeing his enemies unravel before themselves. Even with a broken nose, Stan’s features are rugged in the very best way; masculinity oozes. Kyle can’t help the swell of admiration he feels for Stan, the triumph of having him to his own, no longer in the front pocket of Koopa Keep. Perhaps one day he will stand at Kyle’s side during the final battle of Zaron, and the Drow Elves, with his help, will emerge victorious.

He’ll have to be careful not to find himself admiring too much.    


“There’s far too much to see in just a day,” Kyle offers, suddenly sounding almost cold. Stan is just another thing worming under his position on the throne; another thing to be carefully monitored. As he gestures out, it’s clear that the throne room is a makeshift defense, wound with thistles and barbed wire and far too many guards for Kyle’s liking, but their real palace lies near. “And, unfortunately, you won’t get to see much outside of your accommodations. It’s not like I can leave you to your own devices.” There’s a sheepish sort of laugh. “Just ahead is home, as I’m sure you’ve already seen courtesy of dinner. Elves aren’t much for city life. We’ve got something of a commercial center, roads, but nothing along the lines you may have been expecting.” His brows raise. “Or, maybe have already experienced?”

"There's no need for me to be left to my own devices anyhow," Stan mentions, his tongue running under his lip to free something (perhaps a bit of dinner?) from his front teeth. "If I have a job that is to be done, I will do it to the best of my ability." He will not speak unless spoken to, not act unless commanded, only move of his free will as long as his ward is in the care of another trusted. His voice is cold and monotone, as if the words have been placed into his mind, body, and soul since day one.

Stan Marshwalker is a living weapon.

"But I have to say," he mentions after a long pause, looking around-- deep blues are enamored with the infrastructure of the place, and he can't help but compare it to how urban the Keep is. Back home, there are cities and buildings and residential districts and commerce districts and a palace of the finest craftsmanship-- here, everything is in tune with nature, gently crafted, and loved by all. It is almost, the warrior notes, as if the people and kingdom are one, instead of masters and property. He doesn't mind it so much. "While I didn't expect your home to look like this by any stretch of the means, I find it welcoming. Almost as if... I'm healthier. You and your kingdom must be a great host to all. Your people must be happy here."

He wonders if Kyle feels /bad/ for restricting his freedom in such a way-- the sheepish laugh is near-embarrassed, but Stan isn't sure whether or not that's his personal interpretation of it, or what the king wants to display to him. "I will return to the chambers you've prepared for me, then, if there is too much to be shown and so much that I will not be able to see. The journey I've made was long and... not the easiest, thanks to the way I've arrived. I'm sure you want me at my peak potential for my next assignment."

Perhaps Stan has not quite understood his role within the Drow Elf kingdom yet; at the most, he is a prisoner of war, though he will carry some weight and authority. With some thought, Kyle decides that this will be best left discovered than explained in person. There is only so much that a man can take in one day, and the Elven King is near-certain that Stan has reached his limits.“...Sure, Stan.” He breaks into a real smile. “Everything should be in order. If not, don’t be afraid to complain, although I worry you won’t be held in such a high regard by some of your inferiors. Start checking your pillows for rocks.”

“Wait,” blurts an elf guard stationed by the entrance, immediately recoiling from speaking up to the King’s decision. “You’re, uh... where are you going, Your Majesty?”

Kyle smiles at him. Beloved Messiah must be kind. “I’m taking Marshwalker to his chambers, of course.”

“I, okay.” There’s a pause. The guard is a sheepish thing, timid and weak— perfect for the castle defense, Kyle thinks sarcastically. “Your Majesty, the King, if you would only let one of your royal guard escort this Marshwalker—”

“No need.”

“Sir,” the guard tips his head in respect, gaze to the ground, “he’s /human/.”

“How kind of you to tell me.” Kyle’s voice grows angry. “If the only reason you’re considering speaking up is because of his race, there are other places for your opinion.”

“O-Of course! I mean no disrespect, sire!” He bows lower, physically against the ground. As he does so, Kyle near-vomits in his mouth, but instead brushes past, scowling at how the interaction just happened. They walk against the winter air, and Stan’s cheeks burn pink as the metal of his helm burns brightly against it. Footsteps creak as they walk through the garden, over a wooden bridge that guards the thinnest of babbling brooks. Kyle is surprised that the water hasn’t frozen over.

Stan watches in silence as Kyle combats the guard with his words, and he watches how the guard cowers at Kyle's presence alone. It's done out of respect and worship, Marshwalker notes, instead of the fear he is so familiar with. The word strikes his chest like a well-timed punch—human—and the fear of bigotry returns to the warrior's bones.

He is a human, he notes, and proud to be one, but not welcome in this land of elves. It settles into Stan's bones now, that he is not a privileged guest or a noble warrior here—he is a soldier, a prisoner of war, and an item tossed onto the battlefield by Princess Kenny. Traded away for peace like furs and meat. Tears do not well into Stan's eyes and his hand does not grip the hilt of his sword, but instead his arms tense, and his chest swells with irritation.

“...They’re tiger lilies.” It’s an attempt at conversation. “Nothing in this garden blooms at winter, but my servants believe their colors appease me, make me happy, so they cast their magics to bloom year-round.”

“Quite lovely,” Stan notes. "We don't have flowers so vibrant on the other side. They're kind to keep them blossomed for you. Your people are a loyal folk."

As they grow closer to their destination, shadow enwraps them, only to be placed upon the steps of the palace in all its splendor. During their short walk from the throne room to the palace, brisking through the outdoors and being assaulted by winter air, they’ve been under wraps by border patrol, trainees— now that they are in the palace grounds, guards are present and plentiful. At the command of the king, the doors to the palace open, and Stan removes his helm, skin kissed by the warm air that the building produced.  
Kyle widely ignores how everyone in their vicinity drops to their knees at his presence, only to ascend in a timely manner and continue their work. Unlike the open walls of the throne room, the walls of the palace are boarded and plentiful with history— sculpture, painting, portraits hanging from the wall.

“Here’s your stop.” Finally, they make it to Stan’s chambers, guarded by four and directly adjacent to Kyle’s own quarters. A power move, he thinks, as amusement twitches on and off of Kyle’s face. “I hope it’s to your liking, no?”

'Are the guards necessary?' is Stan's first thought as they approach his quarters, but he answers that before needing to ask: yes. Stan is a newcomer, an unwelcome one at that, and the fact that they have allowed him to sleep in something other than a cell is enough to make him grateful. A smirk rises to his lips, "And here I thought I'd be taken to the gallows instead. Thank you for your kindness. Whatever has been prepared will be more than enough, I'm sure."

Kyle departs mere moments after that, turning into his own chambers. Stan pushes past the four guards at his door, using his forearm to open the door (his other hand held his helm) and closing it behind him. The helm is set on the floor next to the door, and he looks around the room prepared for him. The fact that there's even a bed surprises him, but the way the room is prepared calms him. This is, for the most part, his space; the only place where he can get a moment of silence. Scarred fingers reach for his sword, unwrapping it from his waist and tying it to the bedpost closest to his head. His chestplate goes, and then his greaves. He unlaces his boots and finds himself bare, save for his cloth tunic and pants. 

In his room is a basin (the only thing he's seen in this kingdom that's familiar to him), and Stan finds himself more than eager to remove what clothing is left on him and sink down into the water-- it wasn't boiled akin to the king's, but Stan doesn't complain. He craves only cleanliness after the events of yesterday and today. The water rises a couple of inches as it's displaced by Stan's presence, but it does not flow over the top. He sinks lower into the tub, letting the water cover his mouth and nose for a moment before completely dunking his head under, running his hand through his choppy locks. Stan scrubs his skin free of dirt and blood with his hands, and emerges from the basin a man possessed. He takes the fabric folded next to the tub and dries his face, his body, only to put his cloth pants back on. 

His joints crack and his muscles sing with relief as he lays on the bed, gaze locking onto the ceiling before him. The first of many nights. He prayed to the gods that this would be over soon, and closed his eyes. It was a good thing that Stan Marshwalker was a light sleeper.

  
  
  



	2. winter is here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he has a scar on his lip, deep and intentional; kyle wonders who gave it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. this chapter is almost 3x as long as the first chapter, but i could not. stop. writing. anyways! here you go, please enjoy. next chapter will introduce some more characters! i'm really sorry about not cranking this out earlier; i've been on vacation and now i'm sick, so if there are any errors, please let me know! <3

It's a fine day, even if the cold has settled into his bones.

As he wakes, his own gaze settles onto robes, scarlet and waiting by the fire, ever-so-dimly lit into the early morning; it must have roared all night to warm him while he slumbered, coals giving out their last lives as he rises from his bed. 

He prefers to bathe in the morning, and his servants know this well. As he rises from his bed, pale skin—fair skin—is kissed with the steam of a hot bath, water adorned with rose petals. It’s too much, for the High King’s tastes, but his servants insist that he is given the highest quality of everything. He is their messiah. The hot water soothes the tension in his back within minutes, a sigh escaping his lips and billowing into the cold air of his chambers. His fingers snap twice, fireplace roaring to life again without the need for flint or tinder. Perhaps, he thinks as he settles down into the basin, his temper is only so even throughout the day because of his hygiene routine; rare is it that the young king finds himself to bed without tension in his back or irritation on the mind.

As winter is on its last legs, it has decided it will not go out unnoticed; what would be summer dew normally is frost on the gardens. He watches servants scuttle to the lilies to defrost them, their colors visible from the throne room’s open windows. It's nice. There are few things that the High King indulges himself in, considers them stupidities. They fall to his feet and beg for his salvation, praise his foreign features and consider themselves graced by the gods with each of his breaths. Settling into an oaken throne, the elven man smirks.

Is he that charismatic, or is it just the crown? He can only hope.

 

The Marshwalker was wide awake before the threatening knock rung into his chambers; he hadn’t slept well at all, as he had expected. By the time the elven guard enters his chambers, Stan is on his feet and dressed, head-to-toe in human-make armor. The guard finds him standing at the window, acknowledging how his platemail no longer shone as brightly as it should; perhaps, when the war was over, and he returned to the Keep as a war hero, the smith Donovan would give him a good polish. 

“Marshwalker,” calls the guard, and he turns over his shoulder, brows arched in curiosity. The guard doesn’t offer him a respectful bow nor any kind of hateful glare, and Stan isn’t sure whether or not he should be offended or appreciative. In the elven guard’s hand is a long, silken-covered object, and it’s extended towards the soldier with a curious gaze. As Stan steps forward to take it, gloved fingers unwrap it to reveal the Ranger’s weapon— the Sword of Thousand Truths. Slack-jawed for a moment, Stan is pulled from his awe by the voice of the guard before him. “His Majesty, the King, requests your presence.”

“Thank you,” Stan bows briefly to him, wrapping the leather around his waist. 

Silently, the guard and the guest exit the Marshwalker’s chambers, and he’s near-surprised to see a chambermaid make her way into his room with a broom and rag, likely to clean the room now that the human was on-duty for the day. Blinking a couple of times in curiosity, Stan faces front yet again and follows dutifully behind his escort. He wonders, briefly, if he’ll ever be allowed the freedom of self-roaming, but is thankful that he’s allowed to even see the sun. Knowing that if the roles were reversed, an elven ranger would have been thrown into the dungeons and left to rot; Stan is thankful for what he’s been given.

The walk is shorter with the guard than with the king, it feels like, and Stan is taken aback by the throne room again as they enter. Lips turned up, the guards behind him stand at the door, and Marshwalker continues along with the high guard to the foot of the throne, where he collapses to a knee. "At your request, your Majesty, the King, I have brought you Stan Marshwalker of Koopa Keep. Is there anything else his Radiance would ask of me this morning?"

Stan does not bow, again, which irritates the guard, but he does offer Kyle the same warrior's greeting before returning to that parade rest. Marshwalker is a man of habit.

Kyle’s gaze falls upon Stan first, then his guard. Underneath elegant robes that he nestles into to save himself from the cold, the redheaded man just might be smiling. “No. Thank you, Beiyarus. You’ve done well.”

So that was the guard’s name: Beiyarus. the icy-blue eyes of the Marshwalker shift to the corners of his eyes, watching the elven man stand a little taller, puff his chest out like a bird. As his gaze settles back onto the king, he’s met with the other’s eyes, so pale-green that they could look like sea glass. His subjects treat him as if he’s a god, Stan notes, and he wonders if Kyle expects the same treatment out of Stan. This guard in particular seemed to be utterly devoted to the High King’s every word; that behavior must be what landed him a job on palace grounds.

“Marshwalker,” the king’s voice takes him from his thought. “I would like your company for the day, if that suits you.”

“As you wish,” Stan replies, watching the elven man stand to exit; a glare like daggers is gifted to Stan as a parting gift, and while Stan lifts his hands to remove his helm from his head, the elven man is met with one of his own. He feels like a beast being put on display for amusement, and instead focuses on how Kyle is hunkered down into his robes, frail body hiding from the cold. He sets his headpiece on his hip, like a mother would a baby or a child would a ball. “Are you cold, Your Majesty? I expected you to be bundled in furs.”

His chest rises and falls, the warm air exhaled through his nostrils appearing like smoke, and he, like a dragon. As a child, he and his friends would run around the yards of  their parents' cottages, playing soldiers and dragons in the winter. It was the only time, after all, that you could breathe smoke as a human boy. In the spring, they played shopkeeps and citizens, and in the summer, they waited until it rained to play mages and thieves, for it was too hot otherwise. In the autumn was the harvest, and there was little time to play, but as children, they made time, and a plethora of games was at their disposal-- their minds were the game boards, and their hands were the pieces. He's nostalgic as his lips part and he runs his tongue over the bottom one, a deep sigh emitting more of that warm breath, billowing out like steam.

Kyle, on the contrary, didn't have much of a childhood. He took the throne at an age so young that he couldn’t remember why or how; that’s how it’s always been. Kyle has been High King, and the Drow Elves have prospered. They tell him great stories of his origin—he was dropped at their doorstep, glowed like the sun and screamed like the sky, his parents were great gods, the old king couldn't compare—but doubts any are true. He came to know the old king as something of a father figure and was grateful to be kept as a prince rather than thrown to a local orphanage, but he died before Kyle hit ten without a true heir, and he was immediately hailed for his intelligence and supposed divinity.   


He doubts they'd have been so ready to accept a child as their king if it weren't for the Terror. No, there was no time for uncertainty, not with trouble brewing South -- the humans struck like rats, in great numbers and without remorse, and the Drow Elves had to act fast or act never.   


He wonders if those casualties were read to Stan as children's stories. Perhaps they are what inspired him to go to war.

The race of Men had called it the Conquest; the greatest human attack in their history. Led by a great general who was said to have slain dragons with merely a stare and a strategist who could have predicted the future, they were informed that the land the elves had stolen was to be thinly-populated-- and the perfect time to reclaim what had been stolen from them. 

Every little boy wanted to be a soldier when they grew up. Some became blacksmiths, other became herders. Some became paladins, and Stan? He was conscripted. A soldier—a warrior, a fighter, a survivor—with some innate handling of animals thrown to elves like a piece of meat. He wonders if becoming a herder would have been better; the boy with the sugar sickness did it. Then again, the boy with the sugar sickness had no legacy or glory like Stan did. He puffs up his shoulders at that thought.

"Yeah, a bit." Kyle kind of laughs into his hands. Stan’s eyes are what Kyle considers winter to be; sharp and planning, cold and calculating. His teeth scrape against his bottom lip, and he can’t help but wonder what it is the Ranger is thinking about. "I will definitely retire to the palace, though first— have you had breakfast?" Stan's first name hovers on his tongue, but he pulls himself back. There's something innately personal and embarrassing about it that he hadn't realized until the night before.

"Not yet," Stan answers, cracking his fingers one by one against the palm of his hand with his thumb. "I didn't know if I would be allowed to eat or not; I didn't want the guards at my front door to get too riled up, anyways." His bare arms shiver slightly against the cold, and he moves his hand to pull his green cloak forward, using it as an escape from the brisk winter air. “If His Majesty, the King, wishes to leave the throne, we should hurry, so that you can be in the warmth of the palace sooner. I'm sure your citizens would not find it funny if their King was turned into an ice cube on his throne."

He grins down at Stan, like a bird of prey, clasps his gloved hands together, and brings himself to his feet. "The palace can wait," he says lightly, descending the stairs from his throne to meet Stan’s eye-level. The Marshwalker is tall, just above six feet, and towers over the king himself, standing at five-foot-nine (tall for an elf). "It's a short walk to this inn I'm fond of, and you'll be sick of sitting around before long. We'd might as well get ourselves out before the sun is at its high. Yes, even in this cold." He has things he should be doing, but it's all been thrown aside in favor of carting Stan into the local town.

He feels like a moron. And yet, he finds himself examining Stan, putting him under the looking glass and narrowing his eyes. He wonders what makes the Marshwalker  _ tick,  _ what gets him riled up, what makes him show some emotion other than his default disgruntled expression. The Marshwalker stands before the king, letting himself be observed, promising not one toe out of line; he has been given orders, and he will follow through with them to the best of his ability. 

"Sure, if that's what Your Highness wants," Stan notes, letting his breath return to normal after the king analyzes him, and places the helm on his head again. The pain of his nose is less now-- replacing the fresh throbbing for an irritating soreness that will be sure to disappear before the end of the week-- but prevalent still. Stan brings his hands to his mouth, warming them through the leather of his gloves with his breath, and follows Kyle to the door. He does not walk in front of him to protect him from oncoming evil, or behind him to guard him from surprise attacks. Instead, Stan walks at his side with one hand on his blade; he is battle-ready, but the time now is calm. There is little to worry about, save the cold.

As they make way for the entrance of the throne room, the door guards seem startled, as they always tend to be when he does anything that doesn't seem godlike. The townspeople are less awed by his presence: they shower him in gifts and affection still, but they're not as accustomed to what's considered "right" of an inferior. They clap their hands on his shoulders and forget to do their silly kneels. Kyle likes the informality. Perhaps he’d have done better as a senator or advisor instead—as if he’d give up the throne, that is. He is king and king alone. "If you're cold, we can find you a furrier. It'll be a long winter if you don't keep warm."

The king offers him furs, and Stan's cold flesh combats his pride. There is a  _ reason  _ Stan did not take his furs from the Keep on this adventure, but the time for self-flagellation is over. "If you don't mind. The ones I kept from the Keep had sentimental value to me; I didn't find it appropriate to bring them. With the way your men roughed me up, it appears I made the right choice." Now that they’re only in the presence of each other, the filter that guards Stan’s normally coarse language begins to fade— not entirely, though, as he acknowledges that this is not the Princess, whom he can be natural before. He must put on airs, tighten the leash. 

There's a derisive snort: "As if they wouldn't be returned. We aren't a wasteful people, Marshwalker, and we certainly aren't thieves." For such a diehard liberal, Kyle injects an intentional venom into his words; continuing his analyzing of the Marshwalker, he pokes and prods for another emotion. How would he react to being shot down so quickly, and so suddenly, just after what could be perceived as a bonding moment? Hell if Kyle knows. He never claimed to be wise, only intelligent.

"I didn't mean that," Stan frowns, upset that Kyle would think he'd call them thieves; he's been nothing but respectful since he showed up. Unfortunately for the young king, no signs of irritation or upset are evident on the taller man’s masculine features. "I meant how they would be damaged in battle. You saw my face; my face can be fixed. Furs that carry the weight that mine did... even if they were sewn together again, it wouldn't be the same." The venom in Kyle's words is not appreciated, and the metaphorical iron that appears on Kyle's face is an effect of that. Jaw sets, and shoulders press down. 

"I truly mean no disrespect to you or your people." Stan explains. "I apologize if I came off as such. I'm here," Marshwalker's voice becomes monotonous, as if he's reading off paper or have something memorized-- in this case, the Princess's words when he was told that he was chosen to cross the lines and act as her peace offering, "to begin the bridging of our two kingdoms and enter the era of peace. Not the other way around." Stan isn't mad. (A lie.) Just frustrated. (Another.)

The lack of reaction on Stan’s part outside of his trained monologue only increases Kyle’s curiosity more; he’s respectful, to a fault, and appears to covet Kyle’s forgiveness.  _ Now,  _ Kyle muses as he watches Stan trudge against the freshly-fallen snow,  _ is that to mend the gap between nations, or is that simply to loosen your leash, Stan?  _ “Apology accepted,” Kyle notes, with a nod of his head. "Just here." He ducks under a arch of rock, brushes his hand against the lichen as he passes. It looks like it'd make up a small alcove at the most; instead, it leads into what could be considered a miniature suburbia, just outside of their "city" life and ripe with new, young families.

Children play in strung fences, appearing like marshmallows in cushions and furs, bundled up by worried new mothers. Dogs roll in snow. For the most part, it's a quiet, quaint place; anyone with their sanity intact would be sitting by the fire with a hot drink. As they walk, the odd person shouts a hello, or scurries off to tell others that the king has made an appearance, should anyone want to see. Again, Kyle appreciates how they do not fall to their feet in praise of him, begging for his wisdom and graces; he’s revered and respected, of course, but not hailed a messiah. They’re good people with good heads.

"It's a good community." Kyle ducks his head, watches his own feet make tracks in the snow. "I trust these people, and I say that with the utmost sincerity. I get letters from the kids, sometimes," and he says this with a twitch of amusement. "They like to visit the castle for their namedays. I don't see  _ why _ , but I guess it's exciting when you're young." He was born and raised around aristocracy, showered in things even as a child; he doesn't see excitement in anything besides going to bed after a long day. 

"Namedays? I mean, if that's truly how they want to spend it..." Stan shrugs, watching the world around him develop. It's quiet and calm, and he feels like there should be some soft music playing to truly capture the picture he was viewing. Childlike wonder finds itself on his face, lips parted and the corners of such turned up, breath rolling out like steam.

"Hi, King!" shouts a young girl from a bedroom window. The new noise startles the Marshwalker, a hand on his chest; he’s embarrassed to find that it’s only a little girl, no more than ten, and he brings his hands back to his sides.

After catching Stan’s amusing reaction, Kyle smirks, turning to face her. He has to cup his hands around his mouth, but he shouts back, "Good morning!"  Stan waves in time with Kyle's greeting. Windows were not prevalent in Keep housing, to protect the citizens from random bouts of magic and to keep houses warmer. Only houses in the upper-class districts truly had any sort of window, and it was not a luxury that Stan's family was given.

"Oh, yeah, uh. Good morning!" She ducks her head back inside, cheeks red at the presence of the two young men walking down the street.

"Wow," Stan audibly notes, looking around at just how well-kept and polite things were in this sect of the kingdom. He returns to his natural stance, one hand on his sword, as they walk through the miniature suburbia. He looks around with the wonder of a new student-- curious at how things ticked, but reserved enough to not berate his host with questions like a young child. He idly scratches a stubbled chin, and blinks.

Soon, scattered farmland turns into more frequent housing, which turns into a proper street, which brings them to a small, crowded inn. Kyle can smell eggs frying. His stomach gives a frustrated growl, reminding him that he'd skipped dinner the night before ( _ and _ lunch). "Why don't you take the lead, Marshwalker?" It's a challenge, but it sounds like a light suggestion. He is playing a game of cat and mouse.

He's told to take the lead, and Stan shrugs. "If that's what you want. Is this the place?" Once Kyle nods in agreement, he quickens his step slightly, to begin walking in front of the king instead of beside him. His posture straightens, chin raised, and shoulders pressed down, looking more like a knight instead of a tourist now. He appears taller, more mature, and built, pulling the cloak around his body to protect him from the breeze and pinning it at the shoulder properly. Kyle becomes intrigued at the other’s shift in stature; he had heard stories of the famous Stan Marshwalker, who appeared as tall as buildings when standing at average height. Perhaps this is a display of that energy.

They enter the inn, and Stan ducks to look around the entrance, removing his helm out of courtesy as they did so. The citizens stop to gawk at the human who has entered— _so the rumors of a human guard are true,_ their faces read, and Stan's lips flatten, head bowed and gaze low. When Kyle entered, of course, their faces remained animate, muttering about the king and his presence.

Between Stan and Kyle alone, it's easy to forget the differences that lie between them, for Kyle is tall and his words are sweet and addicting. The only real indicator of his lineage are his ears (he wonders if the Marshwalker has noticed that yet, questioned that yet). Now that they're in the presence of other elves, he finds that another barrier is set between them: the staring, the disapproval, the /disappointment/. He owes them answers. An explanation, even if this is supposed to be a covert operation.

The proprietress of the inn approaches them both with kind eyes and words, clasping both of the king's hands in her own. The worry of her customers is evident on her own face, as if she questions the king’s judgement without vocalizing it. Instead, careful words and gentle tone leave her lips. "His Majesty, the King! Oh, it is ever a delight to have you here; I wish we had known you were coming! We would have put you in the Fireside Room! Will there just be two of you today, or are more coming?"

Stan recoils, stands behind the king.

"Just us, thanks." Kyle stares vaguely into the distance as he responds. "Anywhere's fine."

He owes them /something/.

This isn't his kingdom, it's theirs. He is only a servant to the people, the same people that hail him a god. The look on their faces eats away at him; watching a great and powerful general recoil in shame eats away at him. It’s evident now what they believe: their god is betraying them. He feels sick.

"If, uh, you don't mind --" He steps up and clears his throat. At his full height, he is an intimidating figure to these elves, even if he's still short of Stan. "Your attention, please," he calls, and his voice rings out like a church bell. Though his speech was careless and casual at the beginning of his announcement, heads still turn as if he’s reading something precise and clear. He’s always been the kind of person to turn heads and inspire thousands with his voice alone. A shaky breath leaves his lips, "I understand how this must appear, with this human in our presence, and what the humans of the Keep have done to us and our people." He wants to mention how, while the elves lost hundreds, they've slaughtered enough humans to fill a ditch on their own accord, but he doesn't. This is a persuasive speech, not a debate. (Not to mention, to anger the Marshwalker in this setting would be a choice so poor that lives would be at stake, so he dances around this topic like a surgeon with a scalpel: carefully, and with a strong hand.)

"You're entitled to your distrust. However, this individual has done no more harm to us elves than you as individuals have done to the human race, and we owe him respect. Be kind. He is not our enemy. Their children are not our enemy, nor their dead. Our enemy," his voice intensifies, almost savage, "is their king. This Stan Marshwalker is another step toward the execution of their Grand Wizard. That will be all."

If there's anyone on their Earth whose motives he's questioned, whose very being he's tossed and turned for hours at a time, it's the Wizard's. There are no more amends to make. He wants him deader than dead. Slaughtered. Decapitated. Begging for mercy at Kyle’s bloodied hands.  
He turns to Stan, a little unfocused. "...Shall we sit, then?"

“Let’s.”

Stan says nothing, feels nothing, is nothing as Kyle speaks, and the moments after. He, too, realizes that he is nothing more than a political pawn. Another step towards the end of all things. He wonders if Princess Kenny wants the Grand Wizard dead, as well. He wonders if he himself does. The Wizard's bigotry and hate has seeped into the blood of all humans, even his own, and he finds himself wanting to bleed. Jaw clenches, and he follows the proprietress to the table she's prepared for the two of them. Stan is a good man, though the best of men can be tainted by hate.

Stan is quiet, but he swiftly removes his cloak and folds it neatly over the back of the chair that the inn girl has pulled out for him. He questions his duty and his loyalty, and he feels the heat of elven citizens on his back. Stan Marshwalker is not welcome here.

Arms cross, and arms fold on the table (but not his elbows, lest his mother inflict her scolding on him, even as an adult), and he looks around, not once meeting the gaze of another citizen. Is it his duty to report home and tell the Grand Wizard that the elves' one true goal is to have his head on a platter? Should he send a carrier raven to Princess Kenny and demand that she call for his return, that each day spent here is another day shortened on his life? 

The Wizard should know that the High King’s one goal in life would be his head on a platter, Kyle thinks. Kyle finds executions— especially public executions— ill-sitting on his stomach; never before meeting the Grand Wizard, in all his bigotry, has he wanted someone dead. But for Eric Cartman, Kyle thinks, he has never craved another man’s death as badly as his. He wants to kill him. Maybe do more than kill. Maybe stuff his corpse, mount him up on a wall so Kyle can admire his handiwork, or worse, have him starved, beaten, burned. Scraps for the wolves. (That’s a disservice to the wolves, Kyle thinks.) God, he knows it's wrong, and he wishes he was pious enough to settle for anything less, but he isn't. He wants blood and carnage and decay. He wants to see the sight fade from his enemy's eyes. He will not stop until the Grand Wizard, Eric Cartman, is dead. Written out of space and time.

A paper is set in front of Stan, and tired eyes scan across it, finding that it is a list of foods they serve at the inn, and the smell of freshly-made eggs wafts to his nose. "Their specialty," Stan speaks after a while, cold hands rubbing together as he picks away at the uncomfortable silence that’s formed between himself and the elven king.  "What is this inn's specialty?"

For a while, Kyle says nothing, even after Stan asks his question. Eyes bore into the table. He is thinking, and as he thinks, there is no such thing as conversation; there is only himself and thought. Specifically, thoughts of how he’d most like to see the Wizard flayed alive. 

As he waits for the king's response, cold hands clasp themselves together, and deep blues look over the other's face. High cheekbones, defined nose, strong browbone-- it's evident as to why the elves treat him like a savior; he has features that are far from elven. Near human, but he doesn't say that for fear of being wrong or fear of insult or fear of execution. His eyes wander his skin, paler than Stan's healthy glow for years of being in the battlefield (or in the farmland whenever he is home, assisting his mother and father with heartier jobs), and lets his eyes rest on Kyle's. Beautiful, like sea glass. He wonders what he's thinking about.

"...Huh?" He says this after a good minute of no reply, eyes foggy, expression troubled. Stress is going to kill him before he can decide where he wants to be buried. "Have you ordered, Stan?" 'Stan'. The first name slips. In  _ public.  _ "I thought you'd like it here, they've got the, y'know. Protein." He pretends to flex his arm and points at his bicep like an idiot. "For the muscles."

Stan leans back in his chair, arms crossed and flesh warmed by the fire. When the redhead finds himself able to re-enter the conversation, speaking Stan's first name as if it is simply another word (the Grand Wizard would never dare speak a warrior's first name; referring to him by family name only as if he is more than a tool). "I asked you a question, your Highness," He chuckles, lips turning up again into a gentle smirk, free of malice and instead filled with amusement. "I asked you what the inn's specialty was, and you continued to stare off into space. Copper for your thoughts." Stan clears his throat, stretching his legs briefly under the table, careful to not kick the table itself or the other inhabitant of it.

The tavern is filled with joyous conversation and quiet music yet again, and Stan truly wonders how different this would be if he sat in a Keep's inn. There is no difference, other than what is on the outside, what features are displayed to the world. The drow elves have their own quiet lives full of first-romances and adventure and desire for glory-- just like any human. It's Stan's turn to stare off into space, finding his eyes looking at the designs on the walls of the inn, ears attentive and waiting for the king's voice to give his opinion on the menu, but eyes glazed with a soft wanderlust-- a curiosity of this new place. Are these people really murderers and brutalists? Warriors and thieves? What has the Grand Wizard seen that Stan has not?

"Oh." Kyle’s embarrassed. His deep-thinker routine is the best way to appear to someone new as an insane person, but he quickly pulls himself out of it, thumbing over the paper like he hasn’t been here so often that he knows the menu by memory. Sometimes, despite having the thought hammered into his head since childhood, he forgets that he's king. He feels like he's fallen out of importance and into adolescence all over again. Then, like the ebb and flow of the sea, the feeling subsides, and he remembers with a jolt that his corner of the universe rides entirely on his whim. When he dies, they'll mount a pretty painting on the wall, and he will be even more than he is now. Thus is the curse of royalty; elven kings are meant to die young. Often, he fantasizes about his own death.

"Omelettes," he says, suddenly. "They've got great omelettes." As he speaks, the same inn girl that showed them to their table stops by again, nervously smiling at the pair; no matter who tends to their table, they always are nervous, knowing the flack they'd receive for screwing up the King's breakfast. Kyle realizes that he hasn't bothered to actually figure out what he's hungry for but quickly throws something together in his head without thinking (it's a great excuse not to answer Stan's question, at least). "No wine this early, please, just the tap." He squints at the menu. "I'll have the oatmeal, then. With the fruit." Does he sound as stupid as he feels? His face burns. Stan has sufficiently thrown him off his game, without even intending to do so.

He  _ told  _ himself he wouldn't let this get to him. That he'd be a functional adult.

"And I'll have an omelette, with no alcohol to drink. Water or milk would be fine, please-- whichever is easier to get ahold of. Sorry, I'm still not familiar with your customs." Stan says with a sheepish smile, following Kyle's suggestion. "And... if it isn't too much to ask, if there's any way you could put a little bit of meat in with the eggs? Of course, if it’s not doable, then please don’t worry about it. The last thing I want is to impose." The inn girl looks at Stan like he's gone mad, but tells him she'll do her best to bring out what he wants. As she picks up their menus and carries them off, bowing politely as she does so, Stan clears his throat.

"I'll keep my copper to myself, then," Stan notes, and runs a hand over his chin. "You don't have to share if you really don't want to. I was just curious as to what was on your mind. But I understand-- sometimes there are thoughts that are better left unspoken. My mother would always call them 'day terrors', and that she got quite a few of them when she was heavy with me in her belly. Did you know it can be an illness if you get too many of them, apparently?"

He offers Kyle a smile, lips pulled back to display well-kept teeth. Though a few of his mannerisms are wolflike in nature (perhaps due to his devotion), the smile that Kyle is given is nothing short of handsome. The elven king is taken aback by how kind-faced the Marshwalker seems to appear; mature creases are evident in his face: smile lines, forehead wrinkles. As he pulls out of his smile, Kyle’s cheeks are red, conflicted— flustered. Even broken-nose and bruised, the Marshwalker’s looks are that of his reputation; he’s supposed to be handsome, dark-locked. Bright-eyed. Head-turning. Kyle understands; Stan has sufficiently thrown him off of his game, even without meaning to.

“Depends on what you consider a ‘day terror’, I suppose.” It’s a weak attempt to jump into conversation that doesn’t involve Kyle thinking about Stan’s perfect jaw, or bright blue eyes, or stunning complexion. (He wonders when those bruises will heal; if he’ll look as nice with yellow-green bumps instead of red-blue welts. That must be it; the color scheme must just be pleasing to the eye.) “Just politics. You know, the boring stuff.” He sips quietly at the glass of water set before him. Elves aren’t much for drinking, and they’re all lightweights, which makes a great deal of sense given their stature. Kyle’s never really pursued the hobby—more important things kept him occupied—but he knows he doesn’t like the feeling.

He watches Stan fold his arms across the table, elbows not touching the wood. Polite. His mother must’ve been a lovely woman, if not stern. “An illness,” he echoes. “I find that hard to believe.”

"It's true!" Stan explains, nodding in agreement. "Back in the Keep, we have a barbarian boy who is associated with Feldspar the Thief— surely you know of Feldspar— and he has day terrors! He twitches and jitters and acts like he's possessed by an evil spirit. Feldspar has mentioned a time or two that as a child, his parents created this potion that inflicts day terrors unless he drinks it every hour... last I heard from them both, they were wandering together, trying to find a cure for him." Stan purses his lips to the side and shakes his head. "I pity him. But no, I wouldn't consider thinking about things like politics day terrors."

Poor boy, this barbarian son Stan speaks of. Kyle appreciates the individualism that comes with acknowledging the personal lives of those around him, but the closeness of it all scares him. How could any other person could have ended in his position and how could he have just as easily ended up in theirs? Like Stan, Kyle rattles himself with thought— what differs the lives of Drow Elves from humans? There was different faces and clothes and architecture — yet, at their core, everyone has the same cogs winding between their temples. He thinks to the barbarian boy again, wrings his hands; could someone really fall to such an illness? Though he hates to admit it, the thought leaves him nervous; God knows he has enough on his plate already without some freakish disease of the brain.

Stan sips at his own drink now, feeling the cool water on his tongue and how it slides down the back of his throat. It's refreshing, and better than any mead anyone in the Keep could have created. Humans drank quite a bit, and most of them had a general tolerance to alcohol, so that they could have multiple drinks as their day progressed, but Stan's father had a natural weakness to it—an addiction, and it was one that Stan had inherited. He would turn away wine, ale, mead, anything, in favor of water or juice or milk. A shame, really, but Stan did not trust himself or his father around alcohol; his father continued to indulge in it, but Stan would not follow his suit. He knew how frustrated his mother would get with him.

"Is that really what is on a king's mind all day? Politics?" he asks, drumming his fingers across his wristlet. In the mind of a warrior, there were so many things to think about—the integrity of your armor, the sharpness of your blade or spear or arrows, whether or not that sound was a bird or a hidden enemy who had slipped up, who your next kill was, if they had a family, were they conscripted or did they volunteer—

His brow furrows, and shakes the thought from his mind. He preferred the silence anyways.

“Mostly politics, if I’m being honest.” The corners of his mouth quirk upward. Unlike the grin that Stan offered him, Kyle only offers gentle, slivers of smirks in return. “It’s a big responsibility, running a faction of people. I’m up to my ears in border disputes.” Because of humans. He doesn’t have the gall to ruin their breakfast, so he keeps his mouth shut. (Angering the Marshwalker is  _ still  _ a bad idea, he decides.) 

“Besides that, I’m just the same as any other person, I suppose. Worrying over the next meal. Looking for a suitor.” Why did he say that? He  _ heard  _ his brain say that, but  _ he  _ didn’t have to make it an out-loud statement. The rest of his thoughts burn into ash. Again, Kyle begins to fantasize about his own death.

What a boring life a king must live, having to only think about politics. The term 'border disputes' strikes Stan's ears, and he feels like he should be apologetic-- like Kyle, he has no interest in destroying what civility is left in their breakfast and morning walk, so he sips his water instead. "A suitor?" Stan arches a brow. "Don't royals have that predetermined or something like that?" Then again, the only other royal that Stan Marshwalker has met is Princess Kenny (he wouldn't consider the Wizard royalty by any stretch of the means), and he's almost certain her heart belongs to a certain paladin. Or, the other way around? Relationships made his head spin and his stomach ache.

Much to Kyle’s pleasure, the girl returns, balancing two plates of food (one significantly larger than the other). Kyle’s oatmeal is brightly decorated with local berries, and Stan’s omelette is the size of a small country. The staff clearly don’t have an understanding of human portions. “I hope you’re hungry.”

When the girl arrives, Stan allows himself to display a wide, toothy grin, his stomach rumbling at the smell. He asked for a little meat, not the whole goddamned chicken, but the large portion is welcomed-- he wonders if it would be considered rude to leave some on the plate, here, or if he would have to labor through the whole thing. "Immensely," he tells Kyle, "but I didn't expect to be eating an omelette the size of Koopa Keep. It's welcomed, though. I can't remember a last time I've smelled something so delicious."

He takes a bite, cutting at it and scooping it up with the same fork, and the flavor exploded in his mouth. It's a mixture of... pork? Beef? Something--and the eggs, and he finds himself enraptured by the taste. His eyes glisten with sheer joy; it felt like it had been an eternity to eat some good food, and this elven cooking was absolutely divine. "This is amazing," Stan praises, "Your recommendation was spot-on."

Kyle watches with interest, spooning food into his own mouth with one hand and holding up his head with the other. Not once has he been disappointed with the cooking of the inn, though he notoriously has had a poor appetite to begin with. Personally, he finds Stan’s omelette to be garish and lacking in color—he’s used to leafy greens and bright spots of fruit or vegetable, save for roots and nuts—but he’s glad Stan seems happy with the selection. The dull roar of the inn overlaps with their silence and makes for a comfortable pause, one Kyle revels in; Anyone who’s spoken to him for long enough knows that he likes having time to think (even at the cost of the flow of conversation). 

“...I’m glad.” A smile works its way across his expression. “They don’t usually serve meat, but they keep chickens. Must’ve been slaughtered this morning.” Elves aren’t vegan by any means, but there’s something undesirable about killing livestock, similar to killing a domesticated animal or family pet. Kyle himself is strange for his lack of familiarity with wildlife; he wonders if he’d be disliked if his secret was known.

"I didn't mean for them to kill a companion," Stan frowns, understanding how a pet or family member could mean so much-- he wonders what has become of Sparky, now that Stan is absent from the Keep. He hopes they haven't made him a war dog. He frowns, his index finger drawing some sort of rune or sigil into the table, offering the chicken to the gods of the hunt as an offering-- he wishes they would provide strength and vitality to their remaining chickens and provide them with a bountiful harvest in the spring, as well as return strength to his bones. "You should have told me; I wouldn't have asked."

He is sad, but he knows the chicken's life would be in vain if he didn't finish the omelette, so he takes another bite. The flavor captures his mind and his tongue again, and the smile returns. He looks like a child, almost, with how his stuffed cheeks raise into a smile and his nose upturns; this food reminds him of home, and for a moment— he feels like he's home.

Even the king himself is beginning to tire of politics. He has another bite of his oatmeal, wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin at his side, and takes it upon himself to answer Stan’s question, though the initial flow of their conversation has been disrupted. “Marriage between royal folk is not always arranged, but it’s usually something political, or in exchange for peace. I find the concept absurd, myself.” His hands twitch in his lap. “Strength shouldn’t rely on the underhanded. I doubt I’ll ever marry.”

Stan’s fingers trace strange shapes into the wood grain. Kyle is intrigued, but decides to ask about such beliefs on another occasion; religion is a personal thing, and he knows the humans are more scattered in their worship, less likely to stick to a status quo. (That angers the Grand Wizard, Kyle remembers, and his brows quirk upward at the thought.) There is little deviation amongst the Drow Elves in comparison. Their Earth is their God, and their King is their Blessed Messiah. Kyle would love to sit in on a foreign sermon, and used to spend hours pouring over ancient tomes. He never quite understood the greater good but felt an innate importance besides the fact. Yet, the rune that Stan traced into the wood catches Kyle’s eye still, imagining it painted into the table. 

"I doubt I'll marry, either," Stan sighs, pulling Kyle from his thoughts. "I've given my heart to the same person numerous times, and I've watched her destroy it each time. I don't believe that she was the woman of my dreams, but it's discouraging. I haven't felt anything greater since, so unless something places itself in front of me and fawns over me, I won't be in the company of another."

The High King doesn’t know why he’s surprised to hear of Stan’s infatuation with some woman—a  _ human woman _ , he reminds himself— but it still stings in a way he’d never quite anticipated. “You’re young,” he muses, as if they aren’t within a few years of one another. After all, he had just been pining over Stan’s smile, his arms. “There’s still time. I’m sure you’ve got suitors around the block, actually, even if they aren’t elven.” Including Kyle. Except, not really, because there’s no way he’d ever court Stan outside of his dreams— not only was it inappropriate, but they had just met. Surely, this is a coursing wave of loneliness that had teamed up with his libido.

"And you talk to me like an old man," Stan teases, another bit of the breakfast entering his mouth. "But... I don't know. I think I've shut myself down-- that the world just has something more of me than settling down into a cottage and bearing a couple children with a wife." His nose crinkles up, and he sips his water (when was it refilled? when he was taken aback by the beautiful breakfast?), letting his finger trail around the rim.

The king pokes at the remainder of his breakfast, suddenly not hungry. He knows the staff won’t take offense to his horrendous appetite, for they never do, even on days he’d ordered food only to not touch it at all. They give it to the pigs, so he doesn’t feel particularly bad about the waste. “...Would you consider an elven woman?” It’s said lightly, but his fingers drum against his legs in an antsy haste. There are a number of questions that Kyle knows he shouldn’t be asking, but the one that just left his lips sits at the top of his lips. His legs cross under the table, eyes rising to admire Stan’s jaw, the way his lips move as he chews.

He has a scar on his lip, deep and intentional; Kyle wonders who gave it to him.

"If she would consider me, then definitely. Unlike the wizard, we are not all bigots-- though I'm sure you didn't mean that." Stan answers, honestly. Another sip, this one tasting like fire as it goes down. "Someone who is kind and treats me with respect, someone whose arms I can fall to when I am tired, and someone who trusts me to protect them with every fiber of my being. I think that's what I would look for in a wife." His gaze is downtrodden, setting his fork down. "Though, in retrospect, I understand why the Shieldmaiden didn't accept my advances. She wasn't the... type that needed protection."

"And what of you, then? Would you take a human woman as your wife?" Stan asks, brow arching as he reaches halfway through his breakfast, the misery of overeating settling into his belly. Though he would never admit it, he wonders what it would like to be in the embrace of anyone-- male or female, elven or human, mage or knight. The world seemed so... unimpressive these days, and he grew bitter and angry at it.

“I’m not interested in women,” Kyle tells him, “Human or otherwise. Though, I have no issue with human blood. Unlike what the Grand Wizard claims, there’s more to a person than their outward appearance— their race.” His head falls to the side, watches the misery that kisses Stan’s expression; he frowns like a worried mother, lips tightening. “Stop. You’re going to eat yourself sick. They feed scraps to the hogs.”

Though, as usual, he is under no obligation to pay, but as if he had done this a number of times, he sets a number of fat golden coins on the table in preparation for a timely exit. He hates to loiter. As they sit, his posture melts into something less stiff, similar to when he sunk into his hot bathwater earlier that morning. “...It’s funny you should ask such a question. My lineage isn’t a secret, really, even if the council likes to pretend otherwise.”

“Your lineage?” Stan questions, drumming his fingers about the glass. “I had noticed that there was something different about you, though I didn’t want to assume or offend. Surely that wouldn’t have taken well if it hadn’t been the truth.” So the king was half-human; that much seemed to comfort the Marshwalker. Perhaps that’s why the bigotry that ran so rampant in the Keep was not prominent here; if that was the case, the Drow Elves were leagues more advanced than any human.

Stan rises from his chair, cloak lifted from its back and wrapped around his shoulders. There's something warm that bubbles in Stan's gut, now, and he wonders just how casually the king can speak of his preferences and his lineage. (Or perhaps the warmth in his belly was simply breakfast.)  In the Keep, if you were not a full-fledged human attracted to the opposite sex, there was time in your life for humiliation. "Is that why they drop to their knees and treat you as if you were a god?" He asks, hand riding over his mouth to make himself sightly and remove the food that may have stained his lips after the meal.

“No, no. They’re under the impression that I’m an elf. At least, the peasantry. They see the human as evidence of my supposed, how you say,  _ divinity _ ?” He smiles weakly. “I don’t know how they’d react. I wouldn't be usurped, but there'd be a discontent, at the least. Quite a few have already guessed, especially those near to the kingdom." Kyle speaks without fear of eavesdropping, nor the consequences of eavesdropping, because while he doesn't expect that any good would come of the truth, he's not keeping it from anyone who asks.

He stands to rise next to Stan, smiles warmly, and as he takes the lead a number of people bow their heads. He takes their respect in stride. He knows they're still at odds with his newest right hand man, so to speak -- they'll have to get over their reservations. Even if Stan misses home, Kyle thinks he could get used to his company, if only until he's got the Wizard's skull under his foot.

Stan notes how the elven citizens do try to make an exception for Stan's presence, and he appreciates it. Helm tucked under his arm, Stan bows gently to just about every group of people he sees nodding their head, even if their gesture wasn't for him. They don't stare at him as he walks, or whisper things under his breath as he leaves-- that's more than the Keep would give an elven man, and he appreciates it.

Kyle forgot how cold it was outside. As the air hits his bare face, he scrunches down into his cloak, grinning up at Stan from under bright curls; they are fire in the sunlight. "Back to work, then. Shall I escort you to the palace, or would you like to keep me company while I sit on the throne?"

"I can keep you company, if you'd like," Stan offers, noting how the elf king's curls dance in the sunlight, and he laughs. He wished his hair could bounce and sway like that, but his simply flutters like heavy raven’s feathers in the wind. "I'm sure that sitting on the throne all day does nothing for your mind-- or do you simply think about politics all the time? He chuckles, cloak wrapped about his body and fluttering in the wind.

He can’t stop thinking about Kyle’s secretive lineage. The thought of the elf king being half-human really does come as a surprise to him; how much of his human heritage has he been allowed to see, Stan wonders as they walk back to the palace, and how much of it does he cast away? The helm returns to his head, and he becomes a soldier yet again, with cloak pinned at the shoulder and crossed arms under the fluttering fabric. He shivers, slightly-- the air is brisker here.

Kyle never recalls being in the presence of a stronger, taller man—notably so, Kyle has always been revered for his height— and he can’t help how a curious feeling—neither good nor bad—stirs in the pit of his stomach because of it. The two of them must be a funny sight to the common folk: Kyle already seemed unearthly, let alone being accompanied by the Keep’s best. He wonders if he could honestly and truly best Stan in hand-to-hand combat. His magic is exceptional, but he relies on his words more than his brute force, knowing too-well that he hasn’t spent more than a day in any training.

How has he managed to fool these people? They see him as an impasse, a Master of the Universe, and yet his strength lies in their numbers. Kyle sighs through his nose. He imagines his death every day, obsesses over it, and he can’t help the feeling that it’ll have to do with his own incompetence. He looks to Stan as a confidant — isn’t that foolish? Dangerously foolish. His words could fall on the ears of the Wizard in a months’ time. However, as Stan pulls his helmet back on to hide from the cold of the world, those strangely-capturing blue eyes peer through, like a hound on night’s watch. Stan is proud, loyal, kind-hearted— ignorant and youthfully optimistic, for someone who likely has a year or two on Kyle’s age. He has a sense of justice, and that alone causes Kyle to believe that Stan will inevitably fight for what is right, and help him in the downfall of the Grand Wizard.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t bore easily.” God knows Kyle just caught himself thinking about politics during a conversation on how often he thinks about politics. “I grew up alone, for the most part, and I rarely have someone to share with. I guess that’s why I’m so open with you, Stan.” He leads the way home with his head bowed and shoulders curled forward. He does not look like a king in that moment, save for the crown. “You can ask me anything you’d like. I reserve the right to withhold an answer, of course, but never with venom.”

Kyle mentions how open he is with Stan, spawned by his solitude as a child-- "I grew up alone," Kyle tells him, and Stan sympathizes. Though he is not the first or only child of Sharon and Randall, his elder sister was the victim of a horrible and traumatic spell, inflicting her with symptoms akin to an ogre's. For her safety, they placed a harness on her teeth and on her head, and she chose to spend a majority of her time in her quarters in the Marshwalker cabin. < /p> Stan was a charismatic boy, as a child, headstrong and not unafraid to put someone in their place if an innocent person was harmed. Because of this, Stan's popularity grew, and his name-- even as a child-- flourished through the Keep, beloved by all as a young man. He never truly knew what it was like to be alone until he returned to his cabin.  


Why does Kyle treat him like a confidant, Stan wonders as the elven king speaks so freely to him. Unlike Kyle, Stan walks tall and proud, chest pressed forward and head held high-- it's a habit, he thinks, of how he was asked to display himself proudly by Princess Kenny while in the Keep. He is a great and honorable warrior, beastmaster, and friend; the princess wanted him to display himself as such.

His nose crinkles yet again against the cold, and he tucks his arms under his armpits behind his cloak to warm them. "I don't particularly think I have anything to ask off the top of my head. I have so much swimming around in my mind right now that the only thing I can-- well, no. I do have a question.

There’s a long pause, and Kyle looks to Stan with laden anxiety as the human figures out how to word his question. Obviously, he wishes no disrespect to the elven king after the kindness and hospitalities he’s been shown, so he uses as few words as he can: "Why am I here?" He asks. "What kind of political favor did the Princess owe you that she sent me? There were plenty of other great warriors she could have sent, and she chose me? I mean no disrespect, but in some ways, I feel like I've been sent to the gallows."

Kyle desired a question regarding elven culture, his lineage— anything; instead, Stan asks a question that Kyle expects instead of desires, and a sigh leaves his lips. Still, he has nothing to hide, really—transparency is evident in just about anything the High King does, and that’s how he likes it. You don’t win chess by keeping your best pieces in your pocket, and now that he has the Keep’s best knight on his arm? Check is in progress; checkmate is to come. “That’s a fair question,” he muses, although he sounds like he’s talking to the wind moreso than his present company.

“I can’t speak on the behalf of your princess. I know her more personally than any other member of the Keep, excluding former prisoner, but why she sent you over any other soldier is a mystery to you and me both.” He sounds thoughtful, and if Stan were to look at him, his half-hidden expression would mimic that. The King has always been emotional, expressive— all of his thoughts and queries could be read from his eyes. However, Stan doesn’t look over at him, choosing instead to focus his energy on biting the cold as the beginnings of a snowstorm became apparent.

“As to why I accepted? Stan, you should know by now that I have no interest in killing you. I took the offer because I knew I could keep an eye on you, and if it was a genuine offer, it would form the very alliance I’ve been seeking for a long, long time. If you were sent as a spy or an assassin, we’d still have one of the Keep’s best under our surveillance. I didn’t see any real reason to decline. Personally, I thought the Princess was doing herself a disservice, but… she’s always been a bit strange.” He wonders if Stan is feigning ignorance, but given the time he’s spent with the man, the idea seems absurd. (He should have known he’d find himself biased.) “...You’ve upset the royal guard, at least, but they’d never dream of voicing their dissatisfaction.” He tsks. “I hate being feared.”

"I don't fear you," Stan corrects him. "You've shown me a kindness and patience I really didn't expect to receive when I arrived-- and I thank you." The soft cracking of his knuckles can be heard from under the cloak, and his gaze is downtrodden once more, a hearty sigh escaping his chest, and his body relaxing. "I'm sorry for causing this unrest in your guard, and I hope it doesn't hinder the job they've been asked to do." Stan runs his tongue over his lips, and he looks up to the sky, finding himself lost in the winter clouds.

Perhaps the princess sent him because of his pure heart and his loyalty, he thinks; any other soldier may have used this opportunity to slay the king and turn the tide of war--but not Stan. His directions from the princess were clear: he would travel to Kyle's kingdom in good favor, cast down his blade if it were needed, and protect him as he had protected her for years. It was to be a sign of peace, a sign of hope for the future. Stan should be honored, shouldn't he?

His first name flows from the king's tongue again, and this time he can't help but cast a glance to the redheaded royalty. He lets his eyes stay there for a moment, and simply watch the other's mannerisms. His fingers dig into his palm, and he returns his gaze forward. A swallow, a beat of breath-- and his voice is quiet, as to not upset any passersby.

"Thank you, Kyle."

The High King knows he gave Stan that permission, and he by no means regrets doing so, but he never expected him to actually  _ use  _ his name; hell, he hasn’t heard anyone use “Kyle” since before his inauguration. Something shifts in his brain. He’s visibly surprised, just a little, and a smile spreads wide across his face. Kyle. Kyle. Kyle. His name, Kyle. He has no last name, just the first, but that alone is enough to reassure him of his personhood. He is alive, he is here, and he is welcomed in the presence of the Marshwalker.

“You’re very welcome.” And he is. It’s like their own little secret, an escape from the formality and everyday life they’ve become accustomed to. The general and the High King. The ranger and the mage. The human and the elf. Stan and Kyle. God, he feels like a kid with a puppy love crush. “I’m sure we’re going to have an easy day, at least, with this weather. No one wants to complain in the snow.” Kyle is used to well-meaning citizens coming to give their opinion on various things: construction is too loud, the wind has been awful, they saw a guard slacking on his post. He generally directs those things to an advisor when he’s busy with other, less stupid things, but he doesn’t see why it shouldn’t be his responsibility when he’s not doing anything anyway.

The busy streets become empty space, slowly but surely. Stan feels as if they’re reliving the last hour in reverse; community streets become farmland, farmland becomes pastures of nothing. Familiar things crop up in the distance. He’s become wracked with the shakes, as the cold has seeped into his bones, and his ears and fingers burn like they’ve been licked with flame. It damn near  _ hurts. _ “...Or, we could return to the palace,” he suggests, trying to seem casual. “I’m beginning to think I won’t survive if I stay outside.”

"That's fine by me," Stan notes. He takes it upon himself to move, unpinning his cloak at the shoulder and draping it around Kyle. Gloved fingers pin it at the High King’s shoulder, and he smiles at how it swallows him whole; unlike Stan’s broad stature, Kyle is slender, thin. A mage’s body instead of a warrior’s.  "It smells like hound, probably, and I'm sorry, but it'll keep you alive until we get to the palace, at least." Stan chuckles. "If we quicken our pace, we'll get there in no time at all."   


As the snow worsens, there's less to see; the friendly faces are gone, replaced by billows of snow that blow with the wind. Kyle's got half a mind to refuse Stan's cloak but finds that he's in no position to do so. He wraps his arms in the fabric, exhales a plume of dragon's smoke, and prays to whatever deity seems fit that the weather will keep his face from flushing. It /does/ smell like dog. (He doesn't mind.) He can’t help but imagine the cloaked man sitting with the hounds during his time as Beastmaster, nestled up into their fur like he was one of them. It’s strange, Kyle notes, but he finds the thought near-endearing.

"I've always preferred summer," Stan notes, lips forming into a flat line. "Actually-- that's a lie. I like spring best. Sometimes the barracks gets a bit too hot for everyone's liking in the summer. Everyone seems to be a bit happier in the spring. In winter, you're either freezing to death or sweating out whatever illness has plagued the town. There's no in-between."   


Stan's mind returns to home again, and how the streets are lined with flowers and vines during spring-- festivals are plenty, crops are abundant, and everyone is a bit happier. Friendly faces everywhere-- humble folks without temptation. He's homesick, barely, and wonders how long it'll be before Stan is allowed to write home to his parents. He pushes those thoughts out of his mind, and his gaze returns to Kyle.   


"For a king, you don't wear warm clothes during the winter. At home, the princess has layers on layers of robes and furs, and a cowl to keep her warm-- she wears so much, there are times you can't see her face, save for her eyes. And the wizard? Well, he's his own set of furs at that." Stan shakes his head, frowning.

"That's my fault." Kyle laughs a little sheepishly, pulls the emerald cloak tighter around his body; it’s lined with fleece, he notes, and wonders how cold the Keep can be at times. He’s only ever visited in his youth.  "I never think the weather through, really. They can pester me for hours and I'll still forget to bundle up. Of course, nobody wants to tell their king something twice." He ducks under the very same alcove as before with ease. Snow has piled up over the rock, but his hand still brushes against the surface.

He sees Stan as someone who enjoys the sunshine, good weather, flowers blooming. He knows that as the elven king he'd be expected to prefer the warm weather; in reality, he finds himself uncomfortable no matter what. He freezes in the wintertime and he melts in the summertime. "I like autumn," he admits. "Harvest. There's plenty to eat. Flowers are pretty, and so are bright skies, but there's something less obnoxious about the cool weather." He blinks snowflakes out of his eyes. "When it isn't below freezing, at least."

"Autumn is nice, too," Stan agrees, ducking under the rock alongside the king, "But I prefer things to be slightly warm instead of slightly cold. Good training weather, in the spring." He shrugs a bit, craving the warmth of the inn's fire once more. "Summer has those pretty glowing bugs that I would capture in my lantern as a kid, though. If I had the time or desire, I'd probably go out and do it to this day. I think it's safe to say that I just don't like winter all that much."   


He steps in front of Kyle now, taking the blunt of the cold against his body so that the redhead wouldn't be cold. Stan's tolerant to the weather, but it still sends chillbumps down his back and arms.    


"I'll make sure you're warm, then," Stan notes, cold joints cracking as the palace becomes evident in the distance.  _ We're almost there, _ Stan tells himself, and his determination to push through and showcase his endurance grows; he has the desire to rise through the ranks, to show Kyle that he’ll perform his duty to the best of his ability.  _ Just a little bit longer. _ "If my position here is to protect you as your highest guard, then it should be under my care to make sure you're appropriately dressed so that illness can't fall to you. That is," Stan looks back to Kyle, allowing a prideful and charismatic grin, similar to the one he was gifted at breakfast, though hidden behind the steel of his helmet. "if you'll have a war-mongering human like myself.”

God, he can't even pretend he isn't smitten, but he  _ can  _ hope Stan is too dense to realize. "I'll consider it," he says, teasing. Are they flirting? Is this what flirting is? Kyle's greatest romantic endeavor was some useless ball he'd participated in as a child, and while he remembers putting his hand on a girl's waist to dance, that was the height of the evening. His hands tighten on the hem of the cloak, and once Stan turns around, he grins at his back like it's his wedding day.    


Almost inside. Every step is taking them closer to home, _ Kyle's  _ home, warm dry air and warm dry bed. Even with Stan taking the brunt of the cold, he's still hunched and shivering. Stupid. Why didn't he ask how long the snow would keep up before they left? Once they reach the front doors, he has to fight the urge to snap at his men to hurry, and throws himself indoors the very moment there's room to do so.   


"We survived." He puts on a dramatic tone, tries not to laugh and spoil the act. "Unless, if I may suggest, this is our purgatory."

"If I'm trapped in purgatory, the Lord of the Hunt owes me one." Stan laughs heartily, removing his helm and turning to face Kyle again. The snow decorates his hair like a circlet, a thin band wrapping around his head where his helm did not reach. He dusts it off of his scalp, the cold of the metal on his helm an unwelcome feeling against bare skin. He welcomes the heat of the palace, letting his arms and fingers stretch out like a sunflower hungrily consuming the sun's rays.    


"Are you starting to warm up?" Stan asks, letting Kyle take the lead now-- the palace was unfamiliar grounds to him, having only remembered the path to his chambers and from his chambers to the palace gate. Wherever it was that the elven king wanted to go, Stan would follow dutifully. A hand rises to his lip, picking at a piece of skin chapped from the cold and pressing it back into submission. Calloused hands and chapped lips made a warrior, he remembers someone telling him once. 

Of course, Kyle’s glad to take the lead, especially in front of the other palace-goers. He's content to take up their makeshift throne room. It's a little silly to even have the king's throne outside, but he understands it's of meaning to the elven people, living and ruling amongst nature. (It has, however, brought him a number of illnesses, some of which had bordered on life-threatening.) He doesn’t know which of his predecessors established the secondary throne room, smaller, with brick walls and carpeted floors, but he’s grateful for it, wonders if that king in particular was as sickly as Kyle was.   


With his hand at his lip already, Stan cups his hands around his mouth, warming his palms as he awaits the other's lead. The bubble of warm air that Marshwalker created was pleasant on both his cold, dry hands, and his frostbitten nose, so he closes his eyes and revels in it for just a moment. He's sure that the heat of the palace would warm him and his charge any moment now, but Stan is quite a child when it comes to achieving a comfortable temperature-- he wants it quick, fast, and in a hurry.   


He wonders if mages can change their body temperature like they can control the elements. He'd have to ask one. (He wonders if they can teach him.)

"I've been meaning to ask about your, ah, religious beliefs." Kyle's hands knot together under his cloak (Stan's cloak, too, which he hasn't yet thought to return). "I hope it's not a touchy subject. I'm just curious, really." His feet fall lightly against the palace floor. He notes with a touch of amusement that Stan is tracking mud indoors, but it's an easy fix, and something he finds endearing. "Elves aren't so diverse in their faith. We're tolerant, of course, but you rarely find that anyone defies the norm."

"Not touchy at all," Stan replies, "The Keep, though the Wizard hates it, is comprised of folk of different religions-- so much so that a pantheon has been crafted. I follow the belief of Throandis, Lord of the Hunt. His word is simple-- kill no innocent creature unless it is for food or fur, or self-defense. He requires no sacrifice, and his rune is easy to draw. We draw it in our tables and on the doors of our slaughterhouses in the Keep, usually with a blade, but tracing it into wood or fabric with your finger is fine as well if you're at a guest's home. There's no need to draw it if the meal is comprised of fruits or vegetables or grain-- only meat. When those who are devoted to him die, we travel to the Great Hunting Lands, where our hunting companions who have died are waiting for us to join Him in the Eternal Hunt." He explains it calmly and politely, though his hand clenches slightly. "The Wizard claims that any god who is not the one he follows is a heretic, but it's one of the few thoughts that he has that the citizens don't treat as law."   


"They say I'm so good with animals because of my devotion to Him," Stan mentions, shrugging, "But in actuality, I don't go around preaching his Word like others do. There are a sect of folk in the Keep that love the Lord and his Hunt so much that they stage false attacks to hunt animals in self-defense in an attempt to... please him. My uncle is that way. It's frustrating, to say the least."   


"And you?" Stan asks, hoping to learn more about the culture-- and the king himself. "What's your faith like here?"

Kyle wonders if he’s read about this Thorandis, maybe long ago, but he’s still very interested in what Stan has to say — it explains the sigil he traced into the table during breakfast. "Wow," he breathes, and he means it. "That's interesting. Aligns closely with that of the Drow Elves, if one was to draw a comparison." The idea of an afterlife is comforting, something Kyle appreciates, but he wonders how Stan should feel about friends or family that didn't follow his God and thus wouldn't appear in his afterlife. It seems out of bad taste to ask.   


"It's simple, here. While they have an elven pantheon, led by the Corellon Larethian, it's fairly outdated, and it's rare that you find someone devoted to their cause these days." He pushes open a tall set of doors and steps into their second throne room, fairly simple but with windows making up nearly every inch of wallspace. It's as if they're outside once more. With the open glass, there's definitely a chill in the air, but vastly more comfortable still -- Kyle pulls Stan's cloak from his shoulders and turns to set it across Stan's instead, head ducked and lips quirked upward. "Instead, it's conceptual. Nature is their God and the King is their Messiah."   


As Kyle takes his position on the throne, he becomes less of a person and more of a God in his posture, his expression, his very essence of being. Responsibility rests on his shoulders. It ages him, not physically, but in his personality. He sometimes wonders how different he'd be if he lived anywhere else. "But, I don't really commit to any particular religion. I'm conflicted. Maybe a little disenchanted." He sets his hands on the arms of the throne. "Maybe I'm doomed."

The gentle touch of the king as he places Stan's cloak back around its owners shoulders is comforting to the soldier, and he removes the pin from the leather so that he can pin it at his shoulder again. While Kyle rises to take the throne, Stan hides his arms under the cloak again, seeping up the warmth that is left in the fabric. He stands before him now, and the placement of the two seems foreign-- but fitting nonetheless. He waits for his command--where to go, where to stand, where to sit--in front of the throne, and shakes his head.   


"Doomed and disenchanted, no. One does not need religion to follow a proper moral compass. You're doing good for your people, even if you don't believe that you're their savior like they think you are. You give them something to believe in; the best messages are built on hope." His eyes search the ground, locking onto his dirty boots. "I wish the Keep had hope to believe in; the Wizard wishes for power, for pride, for total control." Marshwalker shakes his head in disgust; though the Wizard's bigotry is evident in his actions or speech on occasion, Stan does not agree with the mantra of human purity that the Wizard has preached. He clears his throat, looking behind him and the dirt he's brought in.   


"Did I do that?" He asks, hoping to change the topic a bit from such a solemn theme. "T-the dirt, I mean. I didn't mean to--"

“Shush.” Again, that motherly picking, that which Kyle can’t help. “It’s fine. Any other person to make an appearance will simply track in more.” He tilts his head, rests it against his palm; such a young king is stark against the throne’s history. “I’d like you at my side, Stan, on your feet. Don’t worry about the mud. It’s only temporary, my knight.” His words drip with honey, but his expression grows serious. Stan’s mention of the Wizard’s rule has upset his stomach. How could anyone consider that man a King, a God in his own regard? Where is the revolt? Their own will? Does the majority agree with his prejudice, or are they simply fearful of the consequences?   


His head aches. Suddenly, there is a terse silence; Kyle has sunk into his subconscious. His jaw is set tight, brow furrowed, eyes dark. It’d be in Stan’s best interest not to interrupt.    


“His Majesty, the King.” Kyle’s train of thought falls to pieces. An older guard has arrived, fallen to his knees, and is waiting for Kyle’s permission to speak.   


“...Yes?” He sounds frustrated. “Ilmryn, isn’t it?”   


“Indeed.” Ilmryn stays pressed to the floor. “Sir, there’s been a breach of territory, due south..

...It's a human. We’ve lost men.”


	3. the thief's lament.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here lies stan marshwalker, died of a plastered heart and broken hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, and if you're just now tuning in, know that i am the worst to ever exist and i'm truly sorry for everything. i wanted to update this a while ago, but i've been working 40-50 hour work weeks, though through my hard work, i was finally able to buy my first car!! yay!! <3
> 
> this friday (6/29) i am doing an all-day q&a session about this AU and about the fanfiction itself on my south park sideblog (http://www.marshwalkerstan.tumblr.com) and i'd really like if you guys went ahead and sent in some questions regarding everything! i know quite a few of you have been asking about the 'major character death' tag, and trust me, i would /love/ to discuss that some more.
> 
> if you're interested in writing ficlets or drawing art for this au, it's important to know that i would /love/ to be tagged/have it sent to me so that i can scream and cry over it as much as i'm certain you all will scream and cry over... the endgame of this fic. 
> 
> love you all ! <3 - m

“We’ve lost men.”

Kyle’s brow twitches, hands gripping the side of the indoor throne— wooden, though of craftsman’s make, and not nature’s. He wants to scream, to throw _something_ at this poor scout for his report. Instead, he keeps his composure, licks his lips, sighs. “How many?”

“No more than five,” he’s told, and there’s a strange settling in Kyle’s chest. That’s five lives lost, five sisters without brothers, fathers without sons, lovers without partners, but for some reason he’s allow to settle in his chair and say _only_ five. It could have been worse. “Still,” the scout continues, hands folded in front of him, “We’ve captured the assailant, and wait for your cue to kill him, Your Majesty.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Kyle demands, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. Another sigh, one of thought, escapes him, and he chews his lip. “Bring the assailant to me, and do not touch a hair on his head more than you’ve already done. I wish a word with him. Have another bring the deceased.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The minute the elven guard leaves the room, Kyle descends from his throne, beginning to pace back and forth in a neat line. He feels the Marshwalker’s gaze on him, and refuses to look up to see if it is one of malintent or worry. There’s a brief moment of inhale, then exhale, and Kyle grits his teeth in frustration. He stops his pace, settling into himself. The room is too bright, a headache is forming, and good people have died on this cold, winter day.

“I want you to be reasonable, Stan,” Kyle tells him, still refusing to look at his human guard; his voice is softer than either of them expected, and the fact that Stan has yet to say anything sets his anxieties ablaze. “And know that I will not kill this human unless there is no other option.”

"I understand." Stan tells the other, knuckles cracking but head held high. "And I hope you're reasonable with me for what I might have to do in this situation." That's his way of saying he won't betray a fellow human; he hopes Kyle can pick that much up. The cape is pushed back behind his shoulders, exposing his chest and arms, which are now crossed. He's angry, now, at the situation that unfolds before him, an unwanted warmth present in his chest and an illness in his stomach; he feels like he's going to be sick.  
The door opens again, revealing Kyle's guard escorting in the prisoner.

His legs are limp, weak— they haven’t been broken, but they’ve been just about. A normally sharp jaw, snakelike eyes so blue and bright that they outshone even those of Stan’s, thick brows that completed what could be described as a handsome face… Stan’s chest clenches as the human is thrown before the King by elven guard, an ultramarine hood pulled back to reveal none other than Feldspar the Thief in the throne room.

Stan fights the urge to vomit in his mouth as the sound of chains erupt throughout the throne room; an elven guard, a scout, standing behind the human thief, pulls on them to force Feldspar back onto his heels, tired eyes looking up at the redheaded king. Like Stan, they had broken Feldspar’s nose, beaten him within an inch of his life… any more abuse, and the master thief would likely have crossed over with the five lives he had taken. Letting his head fall, unable to manifest some inkling of strength to continue, Feldspar catches a glance of Stan’s uncomfortable posture, tossing his head back and coughing up blood.

"Marshwalker," Feldspar speaks through bloodied teeth, and Stan doesn't reply. The look in the thief's eyes is barely hopeful-- he wonders if Stan can get him out of this situation, but Stan's eyes return glazed and quiet. He can't speak one way or another unless things get out of hand, but he silently asks the Lord of the Hunt why it had to be someone he knew. Why it had to be someone he trusted.

The High King normally doesn’t acknowledge displays of disrespect, but there were five elven citizens, five elven soldiers dead because of this one man. Kyle clenches the arms of his throne again, having taken his seat again prior to Feldspar’s entrance. He relishes the blood in the thief’s mouth, wonders if he’d choke on it, and his eyes fall onto Stan as Feldspar calls for him. He watches as the two humans silently communicate; perhaps they wish for better circumstance. Whatever bond Kyle has with Stan vanishes like smoke into the air at the presence of the master thief and his sin.

“Marshwalker,” Kyle calls for him, and the title— not even a name— feels foreign on Stan’s ears; after days of being referred to by his first name, the name his mother had so lovingly given to him, hearing ‘Marshwalker’ reminds him that he’s simply a tool to political pursuits. Kyle looks to Stan with something like pity, and Stan’s gaze hits the floor. “I need you to tell me who this is, and what you know about him. As king, I have to have the complete and untarnished truth if I have to make a decision.”

He turns to Feldspar, crosses one leg over the other. “And I’d like your account of what’s happened, intruder. You were found on elven territory, and took five of my men’s lives, so there’s little you could say that would make me less inclined to kill you.”

When Kyle threatens Feldspar's life, Stan's grip on his sword strengthens, and he's worried he'll crush the metal of his hilt. Kyle calls his name, and Stan wants to turn his head away, to weep for Feldspar, to write a letter to his lover and apologize for what he could not do. Instead, Stan allows himself a low and billowing breath, swallowing. “Stop,” Marshwalker tells the King, his shoulders pressed forward and lower lip bit. “I’ll tell you what I know, Your Majesty.”

Feldspar’s gaze meets Stan’s, blue eyes shaking with anxieties of the unknown, chest rising and falling out of a mixture of fear and anger. Surely, Stan wouldn’t betray a fellow human in such a manner; though, Stan’s presence in the elven kingdom has Feldspar the Thief asking more than one simple question. The Marshwalker inhales slowly, exhales sharply, eyes closing as he reveals what he knows about the man in the floor before him. “No one in the Keep knows his real name,” Stan begins, “though he’s known to many as Master Feldspar the Thief, once a personal agent and assassin of the Grand Wizard, Eric Cartman. He’s a thief-- an assassin-- a master of the shadowcraft. He has a lover-- the barbarian boy with the day tremors-- who he is desperately trying to cure. I haven't seen either of them in months, so he may have stumbled onto elven ground on accident. He was once loyal to the Princess and the Wizard, but more independently-driven than I am. If he says he doesn't call the Keep home anymore, then he doesn't. Feldspar has never said anything he didn't mean."

Feldspar makes an attempt to rise to his feet, and when the elf holding his chains allows him to do so, he stands on shaky legs and combats the urge to vomit, as well. This motion— to speak with the king and his guard on eye-level, like men— intrigues the king, and his brows raise.

"I have," Feldspar coughs, fighting the urge to buckle his knees, "I have a quest, self-given, that I've chosen to complete. The shortest path to my destination was through your land. Your guards acknowledged me as loyal to the Grand Wizard, and I drew my blade to defend myself. I have to get to the mountains north of your kingdom-- north of all kingdoms." He coughs again, blood running down his lip. Marshwalker feels for the other, wondering how someone like him could have been caught during such a stressful time.

"A druid there has the cure for someone who means a lot to me," He continues. "He sent me a carrier raven with the answer to my problem. I have not been to the Keep in months-- I don't call it home."

The elven blood on Feldspar's hands is what is damning him on this day, and Stan wishes nothing more than to strike down the elven guards who hold him captive. Seeing Feldspar now, in one of his weakest forms, hurts Stan, and his eyes close. _Please_ , his face reads, _Please be watching over him, Master Hunter._

“How noble.” Kyle’s words are flat. Those who do not know him or care for his attitude may assume he speaks with sarcasm, though others acknowledge their king’s words as being nothing more than sincere. Feldspar seems genuine, almost, and Kyle’s eyes soften considerably; however, this alone does not guarantee his release. Kyle sympathizes with any cause, but he is all-too aware of his inability to simply listen to such claims. He does remember Stan’s mention of this man — he and his lover, their desperate attempts to cure a disease of minds — but that may only prove it a dangerous plot.

“You have me in a bad position, Feldspar.” He isn’t commanding, but calm still, compassionate to a fault, but still very sure of his own authority. He cannot begin to appear weak or soft; not in front of the Marshwalker, in front of his royal guard. He blossoms with radiance. “If I let you off, I’m a fool, and if I have you executed, I’m a tyrant.” His head tilts. “Furthermore, I don’t have the manpower to keep you as prisoner for long, and you’ve proven yourself far too formidable to be off on your way. Five dead. Five mothers without sons. Five lives snuffed out like candlelight.” He tsks, shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I’ve heard of this barbarian’s plight.”

Before anyone in his court can chime in their unwarranted comment, or before Feldspar can continue to plead his case, he raises an elegant hand, adorned with silk and gold; he’s forgone the rings, finds them to be pesky. Kyle needs time to think. He feels it in his bones. “I don’t like to kill my prisoners. An eye for an eye makes the world blind, as it goes. I’ll make my decision by twilight, and you’ll be kept in our dungeons until sunrise.” He hates how guilt prickles in his stomach for defending his own kingdom. “Take him away.”

"MARSHWALKER, YOU  ** _BASTARD!_** "

Feldspar calls out to him as the guards pull him from the kingdom. Stan turns his head away, visibly grimacing. The guilt of not saying more-- not preaching Feldspar's innocence, making him wait to see if he will live or die--eats him alive, and he does not speak even after the doors close and Feldspar's voice is all but muffled. He understands--Feldspar does not know that Marshwalker is here of the princess's accord; he looks a traitor, a coward in the thief's eyes, he's sure.

He wonders if the barbarian boy is cold and alone.

There is a safety in silence that Marshwalker revels in. He does not cry or grow angry, but instead he hangs his head in shame. The bile in his mouth does not rise, but instead his entire body begins to hurt. He hates Princess Kenny for this decision, to force him to apologize to everyone he has considered a friend. To a degree, perhaps pushing back this decision is more than enough for Stan. It gives them time; it gives him time to promote Feldspar's innocence. Stan drew his blade in self-defense, but he took no lives. Feldspar has always struck to kill, as was the Way of the Shadow in comparison to the Way of the Sword. His lips are chapped, and the only noise heard in the throne room is a sniffle that is pulled from Stan's nose before he reaches up to rub his lips raw.

He has an idea, but doesn't push it as of now. Instead, the silence reigns champion over the throne room still. He wonders if Kyle will speak the first word.

And Kyle does— he always does. Still, he revels in the silence just the same, hands stapled in his lap and expression set firm. Thinking. Thinking himself into shapes and depictions of the future, calculating thought in his mind. Looking for the optimal ending, looking for the answer that exists down in the bit of his subconscious without having to sleep on it. A weaker man might think Stan’s presence to be an inconvenience, but he looks to him as a gift; rarely does a ruler make the decision to kill in front of the man’s friend or family. It’s... enlightening, to say the least. He wonders how many humans he’s sent to their deaths, only for their family to openly weep once they get the letter, the wax seal of the Drow Elves.

He still remembers the first life he’d sent away. The scout was twenty-four; the king was thirteen.

“Stan.” They’re alone in the room, and a chill creeps into his bones. “You did well.” Suddenly, he stands with his back to his knight, walks to the window and stares into the snow. It seems to have slowed down considerably. “You spoke of this Feldspar before, and I believed you. I sympathized.” He sighs. “This situation has led me to be more conservative with my trust, and yet I look to you as a confidant, still. I’m more of a fool than I thought.” Kyle’s hair seems dull against the outside world. He seems too short, too weak, and too alone. It’s a wonder he ever came to be king at all, in his mind; he is a tragedy to his people. “I’m worried I’ll have to kill him.”

He did well?  _ Did well? _ He feels like a war hound being praised by his master, and his eyes open, full of irritation—not a full-fledged rage just get; the embers still burn low. He can't help but look at Kyle with a slight disgust; he's given Feldspar more than the Wizard would have given an elven intruder, but the personal relationship between the warrior and the thief keeps him silent.

" _Don't_." Stan takes a seat on the ground next to the throne, worried his legs will not keep him standing if he continues to worry. There's a prolonged silence after Stan's encouragement, and he rests his arm on his knee. The warrior is quiet—hurt, tired, longing for something to just  _ go right  _ for once. Feldspar's disgust weighs heavily on his heart, and he looks to the ceiling, hoping for an answer.

He wonders if the Lord pities him.

Kyle senses the tension, knows he may have mistepped, and he can’t help the slight fear that worms into his brain; Stan could easily overpower him. The only thing keeping him from attacking is loyalty to his princess and maybe fear of what he doesn’t know about Kyle’s ability, but that much is thin, especially now that Kyle is on the brink of sentencing his friend to execution. It hurts. These decisions  _ hurt _ . “You act like I really think killing him would help anything. I owe my people for this loss.” He sounds firm, but then hesitation creeps into his voice. 

"Don't kill him, nor free him." Stan says after that long moment of  hesitation. "He's taken lives, yes, but only to prolong his own. He's no better than I am, or your soldiers are, in that regard. He wants to make it to the Kingdom of the North to find this... druid. I knew him before he met this barbarian boy, and he was selfish—greedy. If he dies, the Wizard will make an example of him as a martyr. He'll convince Feldspar's lover that he was captured and killed, and they'll unleash their forces in whole to attack your kingdom. Let me free him in the middle of the night, before you supposedly make your decision. That way, you're not considered a tyrant or a coward; you will instead be a king who disciplined a knight for speaking out of turn-- for saving someone that didn't "deserve" to be saved. The punishment will be the scars on my shoulders. Not yours. I will leave a letter with him to stay in the North and to not return. You say that Feldspar has caused five mothers to be without children, spouses without their partners--  _ whatever _ ." The anger in Stan's voice sits on that one word. “—if he dies, there will be a man without a cure, a lover without his partner, and many people without a dear friend." 

He stands, further to prove his point, bowing his head but placing no hand on his chest. "Make this my first command. Let me take the fall for Feldspar."

Stan mentions his plan, and Kyle turns around and to face him with a blaze of _something_ that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt, not ever. “You will not take the fall for this man’s crime, not when you’re here for the sake of a peace treaty. Don’t gamble with your life.” Would he be lying if he said this was entirely his own political intuition, had nothing to do with whatever fondness he carries for the Marshwalker? Yes. Unfortunately, yes. He shouldn’t have a kingdom at his fingertips. He’s irresponsible. He’s _doomed_.  
He walks toward Stan but refuses to look at him, takes his seat upon the throne with heavy feet. Five dead. Six, if he were to kill the Thief. “I’m going to write your Princess. I can’t do anything with him until I’ve settled the score, considering you’re in my hands based on her will. Is that clear?"

He knows he's at least saved Feldspar's life for now and that in itself calms him. The anger dissipates from his eyes, even as Kyle turns to face him, scolding him for gambling with his own life. His life means nothing to him—it means something to others: his parents, the princess, the Wizard, even the elven king, it appears. He inhales another deep breath to calm himself, burrowing his eyes into the elven king's skull until he takes his throne and his gaze returns to the front. 'You would owe me for Feldspar's loss,' he wants to tell him (but doesn't, for fear of angering him), 'you would owe his lover and his parents.' 

He finds himself in that parade rest yet again, but he does not place his hand on his sword. Stan would never think of killing the king, but an itchy hand should never be on the hilt of a weapon. Especially one like this. "Do what you must," Stan frowns, "You're the king of this land; not me." Venom sits on those last words— "not me", but it is not directed at the king. "Not me". Stan's life has never been about him, only what other people expect of him.

Some days he wakes up and wonders if he deserves the life he's been given.

He bites back angry words and tears, instead letting all of his emotion sink deep into his body. He craves a drink now, one of wine or mead or ale, and he craves the warmth that settles into his body when he does so. He understands, briefly, why his father indulges in his sin time and time again. He wants to rip his own throat out, throw it at the feet of this king as a self-sacrifice. It would do them both some good, he thinks.

Kyle doesn’t owe him a reply. He doesn’t want to reply, because his heart hurts and his head hurts and he’s not used to this incessant  _ company _ , caring about the opinions of others.

He wants to be alone.

“Marshwalker.” He rises to his feet for the third time, and it’s as if he’s a man possessed, pacing again, hunched and miserable and angry and worried for his people. Stan is a pawn outside of his home turf. There is nothing Kyle can do for him now except wait, and that alone is more frustrating than anything else he’s ever come across. “I’m retiring to my bedchamber,” he says, smooth as silk. “I’ve got a letter to write. Come with me. You can either do the same, or you can stay out, accompanied by members of the royal guard.” He’s already making way for the door. “You can visit your friend, if you’d like.”

_ Marshwalker _ . He's beginning to hate the title that has replaced his name and creed, and he hates how it rolls off of Feldspar's tongue tainted with rage, or Kyle's tongue tainted with... whatever damned emotion that was. He can't pick a name for it; he wants to say disgust, but that's not true. Irritation? Impatience? 

He'd rather set himself aflame naked on the highest point of the palace than do anything that Kyle has suggested, but Stan doesn't vocalize that. "Feldspar won't see me now," He's sure of that. "I think it's best if I go to bed. Rest, at least. The cold's done nothing for my health today. I'll see him whenever I can see him." Those are the last words Stan says to Kyle as they walk through the palace halls, the only noise between them being their footsteps.

Kyle hates the silence. They are terse, and they are so very different, suddenly; their solidarity has melted into the obsolete. Stan’s answer still comes as a surprise — he’s never came to understand those sorts of loyalties, and so he doesn’t press the matter, even if he’s a little confused as to why Feldspar wouldn’t appreciate his presence — and Kyle doesn’t respond. He doesn’t owe him a response. He doesn’t.

Does he really want to lose Stan’s company? No, not nearly. He just wishes they weren’t diametrically opposed. If they could talk about their favorite foods and places and holidays, he could bask in his company for a thousand moons.

Stan wants to pierce his sternum with his blade and write a letter to those he loves in his own blood— _here lies Stan Marshwalker, died of a plastered heart and broken hands._ He is no more than a tool to everyone around him; even in the Keep, he is a pawn. Expected to jump when the Princess or the Wizard says. Here, Kyle treats him as a person—or, he did. There's a different kind of sting that courses through Marshwalker's blood when Kyle speaks than when the Princess or Wizard speaks; he can't deduce the issue.  
They reach their doors, and Stan feels lonely in these halls, though he knows he isn't alone. "Peace be on you," Stan tells the other, "I hope you write what is needed-- not what is wanted. Call for me if you need me, of course."  An arm is placed on the door, and he pauses for a minute before entering.

“With you as well.” A smile plasters across the king’s face, fake and ugly. It feels like an oozing gash. 

After the door to his chambers is pushed open and near-immediately closed behind him, the throws the helm haphazardly on the ground, not caring where it rolled or laid, and he pulls his armor off with a roaring grunt, throwing it carelessly on the floor as well. He stands now in his cloth pants and shirt and his boots, and he grips the sides of the desk he's been given, looking at himself in the mirror. His chin has grown darker, his bruises are more yellow and green than they are blue, and his nose does not throb, but it does cramp if it is touched. His loyalty to his race is unwavering, but the kindness the elves have given him is something that he wouldn't trade for the world.

This is all their fault. 

He looks at his hands, and in it he imagines the Stick of Truth. He who controls the Stick, controls the universe, and Stan would rewrite history and make it so that the Wizard never came to power and both kingdoms lived in harmony with one-another. He would still be at Princess Kenny's side, only meeting the High King at councils or at festivals where he would be given a royal invitation from the Princess. He would be the Sworn Protector of the Stick, and he would be granted glory and power, and he would make the world right again.

He sits on the bed now, clutching his hair in his fists and wanting to rip it out. Elbows rest on his knees, and he weeps. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to go home. Laying back in the bed, Stan removes his boots and finds himself comforted by the warm blankets. He wraps himself up in them and lets his tears stain the pillow his head rested upon. He feels cathartic now that he's let himself buckle and his emotions flow. His eyes close, and he sleeps.

His dreams consist of the gentle touch he experienced from the elven king earlier; it starts on his shoulders, moving his hands to Stan's cheeks, then to his lips. He swells with pride and happiness in his chest as he's given this intimate attention and comfort— for the first dream in many moons, Stan is comforted, and he is loved. 

A piercing pain is then felt in his abdomen, and his hands are stained with his own blood soon enough. The dream version of the redheaded king steps back, a sadistic smile across his lips as he brandishes a dagger, covered in the blood of the soldier. Stan's knee's buckle, and before he can ask Kyle what he did to deserve this punishment, his head is taken into Kyle's hand, forcibly nuzzled against his palm. Blood drips from his mouth, and tears run from his eyes.

He wakes in a cold sweat.


End file.
